


Our Gilded Age

by Arumattie



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst, But more like lyriumpunk, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Imprisonment, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Torture, implied/referenced suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-05-24 15:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arumattie/pseuds/Arumattie
Summary: Thedas had been all but lost to the Blight, and the Grey Wardens could no longer stem the tide. As civilization teetered upon the brink of extinction, the people built themselves towers to live in, escaping their troubles and creating new lives for themselves.A templar of Kirkwall tower, Cullen would be placed in charge of watching over the mage who made the foolish choice of crossing Thedas on foot. That was a death sentence, if Cullen had ever heard of one, and yet, the man still lived--untainted by the Blight, no less. The question now becamewhyhe had set out on such a journey and what he hoped to accomplish by almost getting himself killed in the process.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I take _write what makes you happy_ and _write for yourself_ to heart. Hopefully the product is enjoyable for everyone else as well, haha.
> 
> This fic is loosely inspired by Resonance of Fate, if any of you ever played that game. No knowledge is necessary to read the fic, but some elements may seem familiar. :)

The ground level of Kirkwall was rarely ever this crowded or ever this busy, but then again, it was an unusual occasion for a person, untainted by the Blight, to show up at their proverbial doorstep.

Cullen didn’t get a good look at the individual—a snatch of dark hair and an emaciated body—as he was dragged into the tower. He looked on as the man was foisted onto a stretcher, his meager belongings placed beside him, and healers immediately began to work their magic upon him. Cullen noticed that at least one of them had a satchel filled with potions, and he was already trying to pour some of the liquid past parched lips.

“Ser Rutherford!” Knight-Captain Stannard’s voice cut through the noise and excitement, and Cullen jerked his head toward the sound, catching sight of the woman’s red hood far more quickly than anything else; it was bright—almost blindingly so—in a sea of grey, of metal and dust. “Accompany these individuals to the Gallows.”

With a quick salute, Cullen hurried after the men carrying the stretcher, the mages still hovering over their patient. He tried to not get in the way of their care: the man might be a mage, but honestly, he didn’t look like he was in any state to cast anything. Would a demon even want to inhabit what essentially amounted to a corpse? True, abominations were something else entirely, but… The man didn’t look like a top pick for a demon to possess right now.

“Does anyone know where he came from?” he asked, and one of them mages—a woman with greying hair tied into a bun—looked over at him.

“Does it truly matter right now, ser knight?” she replied, her words with enough bite behind them to take Cullen aback. “If you _must_ question his origins, I, as a healer, ask that you do so _after_ he has regained consciousness.” There was a moment where her lips twitched angrily, and then she quickly added a _ser_ to the end of that sentence; it felt like a slap to the face instead of a nod of respect though.

“Yes, you’re… you’re quite right. Let us get this man healed before we do anything else,” he muttered, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. Maker above, did it always have to be so difficult to deal with mages? Years into his life as a templar, and Cullen still struggled with this aspect of his chosen career. Cullen _did_ try to be kind to them when he could, but he could never shake the feeling that his compassion was always going to be flung back into his face. Still, appeased for the time being, the woman nodded her head and resumed her work, a pale, green light emitting from her fingertips.

Cullen looked behind him as they continued to walk toward the central elevator: the entrance had been shut again, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that the heavily fortified gates outside had already been sealed as well. Kirkwall’s Grey Wardens milled about, an air of anxiety about them, acting as if they were worried that Darkspawn were going to burst through the walls at any minute. It was probably a reasonable concern, given that the land-based gates hadn’t been opened in… probably well over a decade by this point—sea travel, while still perilous, was _considerably_ safer than traveling over the ruined continent.

Nearby, templars surrounded the Knight-Captain, who was grilling the Warden who had first spotted their guest; she didn’t look particularly pleased to hold the woman’s attention. He felt a pang of sympathy at the look of irritation and distress on the Warden’s face, knowing that absolutely zero people would want to be in her shoes right this second.

“Ser knight?” It was the mage again, and Cullen hurried into the elevator with them, the heavy doors sealing behind them with a dull clank. With a lurch, the elevator began its slow but steady ascent. Out of habit, Cullen turned his gaze skyward, but they were too far down in the tower to see the sun: there was nothing but gears and metal, the eerie glow of lyrium. No one spoke, and aside from a single muffled moan from the man on the stretcher and the groan of metalwork working, the ride was silent—almost stiflingly so.

Despite his best attempts not to do so, Cullen kept glancing over at the stranger. His dark skin was mottled with ugly bruises and caked with dirt, grime, and blood; long, filthy strands of tangled hair fell in the man’s face, mixing with the heavy scruff of beard around the man’s jaw. With an arm thrown over part of his head, Cullen couldn’t really make out his face. The mage was wearing leather, while the tattered remains of a robe seemed determined to cling to his thin frame; his boots were dirty enough that they looked like they would need to be cut off of his person.

When he was stabilized, it was clear that the man would need to be cleaned up, and Cullen did not envy the individual tasked with that job.

At long last, they arrived at the Circle. Rising up like a monster of stone, metal, and glass, the Gallows was immediately visible, even at this distance, and while Cullen felt a little better now that he was away from the lower levels, there was a palatable air of resignation to the mages with him. Cullen kept his mouth shut, though he couldn’t help the slight quirk of a brow when the mage who had snapped at him earlier gave him a look.

“Do you still need to accompany us, ser knight? Surely there are enough templars already here that your continued presence is unnecessary.”

“The Knight-Captain tasked me with accompanying you all to the Gallows, and that is what I will do.”

“As you please, ser.” There was a slight sniff from the woman while the other mages gave him displeased looks; it was clear that they didn’t want to have a minder with them, but this _was_ Cullen’s job. 

Really, Cullen simply didn’t understand why they were so upset to be back here. The Circle was one of the nicer levels in the tower—worthy of a visit, if nothing else. While the aeroponic and hydroponic gardens were located one level above them, there was some rare greenery here: trees and bushes, flowers and shrubs. There was, understandably, little dirt in a man-made, metal-filled tower, but the expense and care had been put into the Circle gardens.

On top of that, a person could also see the sun and stars _almost_ without any impediment; only the Chantry and Hightown, where the well-off resided, were any higher, and the former was so far up that it hardly mattered at that point—little more than another glittering jewel in the sky from this distance. From here, Thedas spread out far below them, and the Blight-scarred land didn’t look quite as bad as it did from the lower levels—cracked and broken, brown and grey.

Of course, the grim reminder _behind_ the name of the mage complex probably gave a hint as to why his charges were less than eager to be back. 

Cullen’s curious entourage marched through the streets of the Circle and then up the steps of the Gallows, and it was in silence that he followed them into the medical bay where a number of other healers—and templars—were already waiting for them in one of the central rooms. Completely walled off and windowless, there was a bed made clean and ready for the stranger, and it was with great care that the healers moved him. One templar stepped forward to confiscate the mage’s staff, while another rifled through the worn satchel that had accompanied him from the lower levels.

A familiar blue glow could be seen from the depths of the bag, and the templar’s lips twitched before he zipped the knapsack back up. Looking over at the knight who now held the staff, the two of them excused themselves, no doubt to take the belongings over to the Knight-Captain’s office.

That minor disturbance over, Cullen nodded his head to one of the women already keeping watch; while he himself had kept his hands well away from his own lyrium revolver and sword, his comrades in arms were apparently less willing to be so at ease. Unknown factors never sat well with templars, and this mage was no exception. 

This particular woman had her hand resting upon the holster of her gun, while the other templars in the room were keeping a close eye on the stranger, as if they were ready to plunge a sword into his chest at the slightest provocation. _Good thing he’s unconscious,_ he thought as he turned his gaze back to the man.

The mages were whispering to each other now, but it was clear that the grey haired woman was still in charge, what with the way the other mages fell into line when she told them to do something. Healing magic whispered through the air, and every now and then, another flask would be pressed against the man’s lips. Cullen recognized a few vials of lyrium being given to him as well, though that seemed to do little; the potions appeared to have a more noticeable effect: his fingers would twitch for a moment before going limp again.

The hours passed, and while Cullen remained ever vigilant beside his fellow templars, he could not help but feel… a little bored by it all. He’d joined the organization knowing that they were vital to the safety of the tower and that while mages were the backbone to keeping Kirkwall running, there were, admittedly, more moments of his job being incredibly _dull_ than of any excitement. _And that’s for the best,_ he reminded himself as he watched the templar standing in the corner poorly stifle a yawn. _Not that you expected this person to turn into an abomination in any case._

At long last, the healers seemed to finish working on the man. He still looked like a wasted lump on the bed that they had been working around, but the mages were dispersing now. The woman in charge cast a look around at the other templars in the room before coming over to Cullen.

“The young man won’t die on you now, but he’ll need continued treatment,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at her patient. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen a case of mana imbalance this severe, but I think we may still yet be able to reverse the effects.”

“Mana imbalance? Is that what’s happened to him?”

“He’s been using a great deal of lyrium—most likely to fight off the Darkspawn on his way over here.” The woman’s lips pursed, and she refocused her attention on Cullen. “Heavy lyrium use treats mages differently than you templars.

“In any case, I will continue to care for him. Shall I suppose that you will be charged with keeping tabs on him for the Knight-Captain?”

The other templars were looking at him now, and while none of them were ranked any higher than the others, Cullen supposed that he _was_ the only one specifically tasked with accompanying the man. “Yes, I think so,” he replied.

“Your name?”

“Cullen Rutherford.”

“Very well, Ser Rutherford. I am Wynne. If you seek updates on the man’s health, then you need only ask me.” She glanced coolly over at the other templars again. “In the meantime, however, I ask that you all allow him to rest. He could certainly use it.”

The templars looked at each other for a moment before the man who had been yawning in the corner started for the door. That seemed to break up the inertia of the group, and one by one, they left the room, leaving only the foreign mage, Wynne, and Cullen. With fewer templars there, she seemed to settle a little, though she still leveled a steely look at him.

“Not going, ser knight?” she asked with an arched brow, her tone cool. “I would have thought that you’d like to report to the Knight-Captain. Surely it is about time for you to return to the barracks in any case.”

“Not until another templar has come to take my place.”

“Do you truly think that man is going to turn into an abomination? As he is, you could hardly consider him a mage: I don’t think he has enough mana in him to even cast the simplest of spells—let alone draw the attention of a demon, especially given when there are so many other fine candidates in the area.

“I’m not sure he’ll even be _conscious_ in the Fade, given all that he has been through.”

“Is his condition that serious?” Cullen was, perhaps, a little surprised by the genuine care in his tone. He saw what the upkeep of Kirkwall did to the Circle mages—or at least those unfortunate enough to have no special talents that could place them somewhere _other_ than the Core.

The Core was the heart of Kirkwall tower— _all_ towers across Thedas had one. It was the lyrium reactor that kept towers aloft in the sky, and it supplied all other sources of power. While a select few dwarves chosen by the Chantry mined the lyrium and worked it into a safe and useable form, it was the mages that expended their magical might to pump the lyrium through Kirkwall’s metal veins—a tireless mechanical heart.

Without mages, Thedas’ towers would have fallen a long time ago, and civilization would have crumbled and died out, allowing the Blight to claim its ultimate victory. Some mages took great pride in their duty, putting their hearts and souls into the upkeep of the Core, while others balked at being yoked to a machine, no better than slaves. They wanted to work for pay and for freedom; they wanted to contribute their magical talents with proper compensation and respect—things that the Chantry and templars flatly refused.

“If it weren’t blatantly obvious to you from the start, _yes_ , his condition is that serious.” Wynne looked back over at the man, a slight crease forming in her brow. “I will keep a healer posted with him at all times until he awakens.

“A mage… should never be so starved of mana.” There was a look of worry in her eyes, one that made Cullen realize that Wynne was more troubled about this entire affair than she let on. When she at last returned her attention to him, though, her gaze had hardened again. “I will notify First Enchanter Orsino of the man’s arrival before I retire for the evening.”

And as if on cue, another healer stepped into the room. Wynne exchanged a few quiet words with him, quietly enough that Cullen wasn’t able to hear from his post, and then she bid him good night. “Ser Rutherford.”

“Wynne.”

The new mage barely exchanged a glance with him, going straight over to his charge, and Cullen sighed quietly. When his own relief arrived about thirty minutes later in the form of Ser Barris, he thanked the man and went to find the Knight-Captain—not that she required much finding. The woman was almost always in her office when she wasn’t tearing into her men or chasing after some apostate.

Cullen took a deep breath before he knocked, and when he received a sharp order to enter, he stepped inside to find her glaring at several documents on her desk. Her office was as sparse as it always was, with only the templar banner draped against one stone wall as decoration; the window behind her revealed that the sun had long ago set. Cullen recognized the foreign mage’s staff sitting in the back corner of her office, while the satchel with the lyrium vials was decidedly absent; Cullen wondered where it had been taken. “Ser Rutherford,” she said, snapping his attention back to her. “How is our detainee?”

“Stable, but beyond that, he has not awoken yet. We have no name and no background information.” Meredith made a non-committal sound and leaned back in her chair; while the pose should have made her seem more relaxed, she still came across as predatory, setting Cullen further on edge. “There was no way to determine which tower he came from either.”

“Very well. You are to keep an eye on that mage, Knight-Templar, is that understood? Wherever he is from, he may have good information on what is happening in the other towers.” She grabbed a pen off of her desk and scribbled something on one of the papers in front of her. “There was to be a Warden ship in our port a few weeks ago, but it never arrived.

“I’d rather that we lose a vessel rather than another tower, but if he is the first of a wave of refugees, then we need to be prepared.”

No towers had fallen recently (that anyone knew of, at least), but Cullen still remembered hearing about the fall of Weisshaupt when he was a boy hardly old enough to understand what that had even meant. The Anderfels, once the proud home of the Grey Wardens, would be the first kingdom to truly fall to the Blight when Weisshaupt collapsed. Hossberg and all of the other cities and towns had been swallowed up by the Blight before any of the towers were even erected, but the Wardens had fought desperately to keep their home. Once their tower had become operable, they had seen an influx of refugees from the surrounding areas, and for generations, the Grey Wardens had done their level best to keep everyone safe for as long as they could.

Some survivors had made it to Minrathous after Weisshaupt fell, but it was said that most of the population had perished.

“I’ll be sure to inquire for more information when the man wakes, Knight-Captain.”

“You are dismissed, Knight-Templar.”

Cullen saluted and then turned on his heel, breathing a sigh of relief when the door to the woman’s office shut. A passing templar offered him a sympathetic smile as he walked past, and Cullen couldn’t help but grin a little in return. With his steps far lighter now that he was walking _away_ from Meredith’s office, he headed toward the barracks, more than a little keen to turn in for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do I need to add any new tags this time? No, I don't think I do. 8|a"
> 
> If you all feel like there's something I should have tagged, please let me know. I sometimes worry that I'm under-tagging things. That said, this is a fairly tame chapter, so I'm not particularly worried about it? Hm... Now to overthink things. 8D

Four days passed, and still, the mage remained unconscious.

Over the course of those days, Cullen got to know Wynne a bit better, and while he wouldn’t go so far as to say that they were now on friendly terms, the mage _would_ at least converse with him on occasion while she worked; they discussed Kirkwall and a few of the other towers scattered across Thedas, lyrium-usage, and, surprisingly, magical theory on healing. He also learned the name of the elf who took care of their ward in the evenings—an Alim Surana, who often worked side-by-side with Wynne in the medical bay. Barris thankfully continued to hold the night watch, and it pleased Cullen to know that the stranger in their care would not come to any harm overnight by an overzealous templar.

It would not be the first time, unfortunately, that a mage would startle awake slinging spells, only to be permanently put down “out of self-defense” by a templar. Cullen thought it a cruel practice that was worthy of punishment, but it was fine with the Knight-Captain and the Knight-Commander. Who was he to speak up against those in charge?

So, Cullen did as he was told.

It was toward the end of Cullen’s fourth day on duty that the man started to stir: a soft moan and a furrowing of the brow. Wynne immediately rushed over and started to fuss over him, whispering soft words as magic poured from her fingers. Cullen didn’t know if it was for healing purposes or to simply soothe the man, but the man quieted and slowly opened his eyes.

Wynne smiled—something Cullen didn’t even know she was capable of _doing_ —and then went back to murmuring to her patient. While she was speaking too quietly for him to listen in, Cullen caught a few words: _safe_ , _Kirkwall_ , and _Circle_ being the easiest for him to pick out. When he took a step forward, as if to join the conversation, Wynne fixed him with a glare as she gently pressed a hand to the man’s shoulder, as if tell him that he was safe with her here.

“You can ask your questions later, ser knight,” she said, and it felt like any sort of camaraderie between them disintegrated. When Cullen stepped back again, Wynne looked down at her patient once more and resumed her quiet, one-sided conversation. He thought he spotted the stranger nod his head once, but when Wynne stepped aside, he had fallen back asleep.

When Barris came to relieve him that night, Cullen updated him on the situation before departing, and as he headed toward the barracks, he wondered if the stranger would be awake and talking tomorrow. The Knight-Captain wasn’t hounding him for information at the moment, given that she was too preoccupied with rumors that a blood mage was causing havoc in the alienage, but Cullen _was_ getting quite curious to know more about this man whom he’d been standing guard over.

To his secret delight, the mage was indeed conscious when Cullen returned the next day. Barris had a faint smile on his lips, and he shook his head in mild disbelief as he watched Wynne and Alim help the man take a seat on the edge of the bed. “He’s been up for about an hour,” Barris said quietly, pitching his voice low enough for just Cullen to hear. “The first thing he said was that he wanted to bathe.”

“To bathe?” Cullen now shared the same look on his face as his friend.

“Ser knights, if you could grab a shower chair and some bathing supplies, I would appreciate it,” Wynne said as she pressed a hand to the man’s shoulder. “I trust you know where they are, given how long the two of you have been here?” She turned her attention back to her patient then. “Lord Pavus, please. A moment. I can’t have you keeling over now that you’re finally awake.”

“Madam, I assure you that I’m quite fine—” Which was when this _Lord Pavus_ got to his feet, only for his knees to promptly give out from under him. Cullen, moving on instinct, managed to get to the mage just in time, catching him in his arms and carefully lowering him to the ground. 

Wynne clucked her tongue as one would at an unruly child and then knelt beside Pavus to take a look at him. She took in his eyes and then shook her head. “Honestly, why couldn’t you make a more sensible first request?” she muttered under her breath before rising to her feet, though a kind undertone was still noticeable in her voice. “Alim’s bathed you every night since your arrival.”

“And I do thank Alim for all of his… hard work.” How was it possible that the man made that sound like a euphemism? Pavus then turned his attention to Cullen, or rather his chest, as he carefully pushed himself into a more upright position. “But a man does have his pride, and I would like to bathe on my own.

“Or shower, as it may be.” The man sighed and then blinked, as if taking Cullen in for the first time. “Oh, you must be _Ser Rutherford._ Ser _Barris_ —” Pavus grinned at the man, who turned away politely, even if Cullen thought he spotted the barest hint of a smile on Barris’ lips. “—was telling me that the two of you have been keeping watch over me.

“I’ve always wondered what southern templars were like.” Trembling hands smoothed over the lapels of Cullen’s dark grey duster and then pressed against the cool steel of the breastplate beneath. “I had always imagined you all with more lyrium though. Your weapons would contain it, of course, but I had been led to believe that proper templars had it all but laced into their armor as well. Do you all wear lyrium-infused helmets? Glowy eyes and all that?

“I also heard that you all wield the Rite of Tranquility like it is a first choice for punishment, not a last. It wouldn’t make sense though, would it? Mages are, after all, _necessary_ for the upkeep and maintenance of all towers—oh, unless you all have managed to bypass that somehow? If you’ve some new technology to share, I don’t doubt that—”

“Lord Pavus.”

Wynne’s voice cut through Pavus’ one-sided conversation, and he heaved a much put upon sigh. “Yes, madam. I’ll take your advice and wallow in my own filth for a while longer.” Pavus turned his attention to Cullen once more, a wry smile pulling at this lips. “Do you think you could save what little remains of my dignity and get me back to my feet, Ser Rutherford?”

“Certainly,” Cullen replied automatically, as if he were a little stunned by the man not quite in his arms, but without any notable fuss, he was shifting, moving to loop one of Pavus’ arms over his shoulders and then curling his arm around the man’s waist. The thin gown that the mage wore did little to hide his emaciated figure, but like this, it became painfully obvious how physically wasted the man was: he was practically skin and bone. “On the count of three, now. One, two, and _three_.”

Barris stepped over to help with balancing the man, and from the slightly dazed look in his eyes, it was clear that the movement had made him dizzy. The two of them helped Pavus back onto the bed, sitting him on the edge again. Pavus pressed a hand against his forehead, eyes falling shut, and then he sighed quietly when he finally opened them again several seconds later, his hand falling into his lap. 

“If I’m not allowed to shower, is there anything to eat at least?”

“Another day of potions, Lord Pavus, and we’ll see about introducing a broth to your diet tomorrow.”

“How unfortunate, but very well. I suppose I’ll just have to behave for now.” A dry smile pulled at the man’s mouth, and he looked from Wynne to Alim and then to Barris and finally Cullen. “I do apologize for the trouble I’ve caused so early in the morning, especially since Alim and Ser Barris should really be heading to bed.

“Please, I’ll be all right.”

“Wynne?” Alim had produced another flask of healing potion, and he pressed it into the woman’s hands. The two mages conferred quietly and out of earshot of the templars, as was their norm, and then Alim bowed, excusing himself from the room; Barris glanced over at Cullen for a moment and then took his leave as well with a slight nod of the head. Wynne sighed and handed the potion over to Cullen.

“See that he drinks all of this. I’m going to see about getting Lord Pavus a wheelchair before he breaks his neck next time.” Her words were harsh, but there was a small smile on her lips when she looked over at the man.

“I’ll see that it’s done.”

“You are the best, Wynne.”

“So you say, Lord Pavus. So you say.”

Without another word, she disappeared from the medical bay. Cullen looked down at the potion in his hands and then at Pavus, who offered a lop-sided grin. “I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself earlier. Dorian of House Pavus from Minrathous. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” 

“Is it really?” Dorian—Cullen wasn’t sure he’d ever met a Dorian before, but the name fit the individual before him well enough—grinned, all teeth. He rubbed at his beard and practically _leered_ at him. “Well, I do hope that it’s a great deal of pleasure.” Grey eyes darted toward the exit of the medical bay before settling back on Cullen. “Ser Barris has been a delight as well.”

“Your potion, Lord Pavus.” Hoping to stop any further awkward conversation, Cullen held the flask out, and Dorian carefully wrapped his fingers around it; the fluid shook slightly from his unsteady hands.

“So formal. Is it because I’m a guest? Or is this a show of southern frigidness because I’m from Minrathous?”

“I’m merely treating you with respect.”

“Like any other mage?”

“Like any other mage.”

Dorian made a soft, considering sound at that, like he was trying to determine how truthful Cullen was being about the statement, but he said nothing else, carefully downing the contents of the flask instead. When he finished, Dorian pressed the empty container back into Cullen’s hands, allowing their fingers to brush for just a moment. Cullen forced himself not think too hard about that and briefly retreated to the other side of the room to leave the flask on the counter.

“You know, I’ve always heard that the southern templars—especially those stationed here—are savages, but you don’t seem like that. Nor does Ser Barris. Are you the norm or the exception for treating me, a mage, with respect?”

Cullen remembered what Dorian had talked about earlier. While he had initially thought it the ramblings of someone mentally unstable, he could tell from the clear and cool gaze that Dorian leveled at him now that it was no idle conversation. Clearly whatever happened in Minrathous was drastically different than what was done here in Kirkwall.

“All templars strive to serve our charges to the best of our ability.”

Dorian barked a laugh. “What a diplomatic answer, ser knight.”

“May I ask why a Tevinter mage left Minrathous for the south? Clearly you think poorly of how we treat our mages, and yet, you still came. On foot, no less.”

“I wasn’t aiming for Kirkwall, actually,” Dorian replied with a light shrug of the shoulders. “My original goal was Val Royeaux.”

“You’re a bit off course then.”

“Please. I’m taking the scenic route, Ser Rutherford. And look! I got to meet _you_.”

Dorian winked at him, and Cullen swallowed. Was this man seriously _flirting_ with him? This mage, still recovering from a journey that _should_ have killed him, was trying to seduce him—a templar!—of all things. Dorian’s lips were curled into a teasing smile, and his grey eyes were clearly amused; it was simply mind boggling to Cullen. How was this a good idea in anyone’s head?

“So why were you heading to Val Royeaux? I’d always thought those from Minrathous were too proud to leave the tower,” Cullen pressed, trying desperately to shift the conversation to safer topics. Dorian looked at him quietly for a moment and then very slowly shifted further back onto the mattress, legs now dangling off the edge of the bed.

“We are of Tevinter blood. Of _course_ we’re too damn proud to leave our bloody tower,” Dorian replied, the good humor still evident in his voice; his eyes, however, were just a little dimmer, like they didn’t quite match the rest of his body language and voice. “No, things are far too different down south for us to want to venture over here, but I had important business to attend to.”

“Important business? Important enough for you to make the journey across Thedas on _foot_?”

“You know, ser, you’re not particularly good at this interrogating business.” Dorian crossed his legs at his ankles, and absently, Cullen wondered if his feet were cold; since his ruined boots had been removed, he didn’t think he’d seen any socks or footwear on the man. The medical bay was considerably cooler than the rest of the Gallows, so Cullen made a mental note to have an additional blanket or three fetched for him at some point. The fact that he still worried this much about a man he didn’t know was, perhaps, a bit jarring, but Cullen didn’t dwell on the matter, his attention flicking back up to Dorian’s face. “If you want to know why I’m here and not in Minrathous, you should probably be a bit more subtle about asking about it.”

“This isn’t something you’ll just tell me?”

Dorian laughed then, full and bright, before he shook his head, as if dumbfounded by Cullen’s naivety. “My dear knight, if it was something so easily dealt with, do you think I would have risked my life to take care of it in person? A simple letter would have sufficed, no?”

“Personal business then?”

“I’m not the sort to kiss and tell, Ser Rutherford.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“What did you mean then?” Briefly, Dorian looked down at his fingernails, feigning disinterest and frowning a little at what he found there; when he lifted his head back up, though, he was all smiles again.

“Why would a perfectly sane individual leave their tower on foot to simply ‘take care of business’?”

“So many _questions_. Shall we play a game then? You can ask me twenty yes or no questions, and at the end, you can try and guess why I left Minrathous.”

“Lord Pavus, this is ridiculous.”

“My terms, Ser Rutherford.”

Truth be told, just about any other templar likely would have done something to the mage by this point, and Cullen could feel his own patience waning. He paced beside Dorian’s bed for a moment, the mage watching each step with a calm smile, and with a huff, Cullen conceded to playing this game.

“ _Fine_. Were you forced to leave Minrathous?”

“One. No.” Cullen had been hoping that Dorian wasn’t being serious about the yes or no answers, but the mage was quick to dash his hopes there. He tried to not sigh in frustration because it was clear that Dorian could be a smug little git when he wanted to be.

“So it _is_ a personal matter then?”

“Two. You’re wasting questions, but since you’re so insistent about that particular one: no, Ser Rutherford.”

“Then you come regarding diplomatic matters.”

That query—statement, rather—seemed to give Dorian pause, and Cullen filed that information away, even if Dorian still didn’t seem particularly serious about any of this. The mage loosely folded his arms across his chest and shrugged his shoulders lightly. “Three. Yes.”

“Is it a matter strictly tied to Val Royeaux?”

“Four. No.”

Cullen really didn’t understand Dorian’s hesitancy with opening up about whatever secret he was harboring. The fact that Dorian seemed so unwilling to talk to his rescuers sat poorly with him, even if Dorian was still smiling at him and was being quite pleasant. Duty told him that he needed to report this to the Knight-Captain, but what good would that do? If Dorian wouldn’t speak to her—and he was fairly sure that he wouldn’t, Cullen wasn’t sure what Meredith would do to the man, but he had a few unsavory ideas. Was it really worth the risk of putting Dorian before her wrath for potentially no reason?

“Can you complete your objective here in Kirkwall?”

Dorian seemed to consider this for a moment, closing his eyes and gently tilting his head back and forth. When he turned his attention back to Cullen, his brow was slightly creased, a thoughtful expression on his face. Finally, Cullen was able to get more than a single word answer out of the man. “Perhaps. Who is in charge here? Is it still Grand Cleric Elthina?”

“You want to speak to the Grand Cleric?”

“Hm… That’ll be questions five and six. Yes. Is that so strange a request?”

“It’s not typical for a stranger not from our tower to want to speak to the most important person in it,” Cullen said, resting his hands against the pommel of his sword. Things must truly be different in Minrathous if Dorian felt like he could just waltz up to the Chantry like that to speak to the woman in charge of the whole bloody tower. “If there’s something you want to share with her, we can easily have a messenger run a letter for you, or I could have one of the sisters come and speak with you. “

“And if I were to say that I’m a magister? What then?”

Cullen narrowed his eyes at Dorian, who simply looked right back at him, the epitome of calm. “Are you? A magister, that is.”

Dorian’s expression became unreadable then. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Do you dare cause a diplomatic crisis to find out?” He arched a brow at Cullen before sighing quietly. “Well, if I’m not allowed to speak to the Grand Cleric, I suppose I’ll just have to keep my lips sealed for a touch longer.”

“Why do this? If you accomplish your business here, then you can return home—”

“Because, my dear templar,” Dorian said, cutting Cullen off; his smile grew sharp, and Cullen could practically see the walls that the man was erecting around himself. “It’s unwise to show one’s hand so early in the game.

“I assure you that Kirkwall was never my intended destination, given its reputation amongst the mage population, and as I’m in no state to _leave_ your delightful tower, I’d prefer to keep my bargaining chip a while longer.

“I have information to share, Ser Rutherford, but I will have my demands met before I give it up.”

The lightness from their earlier conversation had all but evaporated, and Cullen somehow felt like he was to blame. That didn’t particularly make any sense, given that he was just doing his job, so he brushed off the feelings of disappointment. Besides, it wasn’t like Dorian would be going anywhere soon; Cullen still had time to weasel whatever information Dorian had out of him. That said, he made the decision to hold off on telling the Knight-Captain for the time being.

“If you already held such a poor view of Kirkwall’s templars, then why did you ask about Ser Barris and myself?”

“I’m allowed to be an optimist now and again, aren’t I? To think that, perhaps, there were more than just two good templars here.” Dorian offered Cullen a small, tight smile and then carefully brought his legs up onto the bed; he huffed quietly when Cullen reached over to help out when it became clear he was struggling. There was a faint flush against his cheeks, as if he were ashamed that his body wasn’t doing what he wanted it to do, but Cullen held his tongue.

Really, there was no point in kicking the man when he was down, as infuriating as he could be.

“Barris and I will keep you safe, and I do not doubt that Wynne and Alim will both be fierce protectors of you as well.”

“My knights in shining armor.” After grabbing the sheet that he’d throw aside earlier, Dorian covered up a yawn and settled back down on the bed, curling onto his side and tugging the bedding up to his chin. Cullen wasn’t sure if he should take the fact that he was being shown Dorian’s back as an insult or a sign of trust; he opted to go with the latter.

When Dorian spoke next, his voice was a little muffled by the pillow and sheet, and already, Cullen could detect the exhaustion already lacing the man’s voice. Was it feigned though? “Now if you don’t mind, I’m quite tired and need more rest. You can ask me some more questions later, though I’ve rather lost track of how many you have left.”

Cullen was about to make some quip about how Dorian didn’t need to make excuses if he didn’t want to talk anymore, but he was surprised by how quickly the tension in Dorian’s shoulders dissipated as he fell back asleep. Cullen shouldn’t have expected Dorian to be lying about how fatigued he was, especially given what he’d been through, but the abrupt drop in conversation had his ears ringing a little from the silence that now hung in the air.

When Wynne finally returned with the wheelchair some time later, Cullen looked up in surprise; he’d all but forgotten about her. Where in the world did she go to find the blasted thing? It looked old and rickety, and for a moment, Cullen wondered if it would even support Dorian’s meager weight. 

Wynne stilled in the doorway before entering, her gaze briefly flickering between Cullen and Dorian before sighing quietly. After depositing the wheelchair in a corner of the room, she returned to the bedside and murmured a few words over Dorian’s sleeping figure. Wynne caught Cullen looking, but her expression was gentle, almost motherly. “No magic this time, ser knight.

“A prayer for restful sleep. That is all.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't have much to say, but thanks for reading. :)

“What do you think of Lord Pavus?”

A full four days had passed since Dorian rejoined the ranks of the conscious, and on this very evening, he was being moved to a different room—a room with a view, no less. Alim had put the rickety wheelchair to use to help him get there, though it squealed the entire time it was rolled out. To the relief of everyone, it was able to support Dorian’s weight, even if it creaked terribly as the man sat down.

With the three mages in front of them, Cullen fell in line with Barris, who had turned his head a little to look at him. He shrugged his shoulders and focused his gaze on the man being rolled down the hallway; Dorian had wrapped himself up in one of the blankets Cullen had found for him yesterday, and he looked smaller swaddled in the fluffy, old thing.

“I think he’s insane,” he finally replied with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “He won’t say a word about why he’s here, and yet, it was clearly important enough for him to fight his way through the Darkspawn to reach us.”

“I told the Knight-Captain that he’s awake.” There was a little bit of hesitancy in which those words formed in Barris’ mouth, as if he was worried about what Cullen might think about the matter. Cullen knew that that was the right thing to do, but he still couldn’t help the slight cringe that crossed his features.

“Did she say anything?”

“Still the same: find out more about him.”

Cullen grunted in response. In front of them, Alim struggled to round a corner with the wheelchair, and Wynne ended up having to awkwardly nudge one of the front wheels with her foot to make it actually turn. Before either templar could step forward to assist though, they were back on their way; none of the mages seemed to pay their minders any heed, continuing with their softly spoken conversation as if nothing had happened.

“I don’t think he’ll talk to her.” Dorian Pavus was not a broken mage like so many of the Kirkwall ones were. Even compared to Wynne and Alim, whom he both considered to be very proud of their skills and standing, the man oozed confidence, despite the fact that he still looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over. “Quite frankly, I’m worried about what will happen when they eventually meet.”

Bloodshed, most likely, but he kept that thought to himself.

“Has he asked you to see the Grand Cleric as well?”

Barris nodded just as they arrived at Dorian’s new room. They were still technically in the medical bay, but it was farther away from the center—more private and a fair deal quieter as well. The walls were just as bare, as were the furnishings, but there was a wide window with the curtains drawn back to show off a stunning view of the setting sun. Barris moved as if to help Dorian get to his feet, but the man waved him off before he could even open his mouth to ask. Instead, he came to stand by Cullen once more, folding his arms loosely across his chest.

“The Knight-Captain won’t allow it, no matter who asks.”

“Have you tried?”

“Have _you_?”

Wry smiles pulled at their lips, and Cullen clapped Barris on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said before his gaze flickered over to where Dorian was smiling at Wynne, clearly pleased with his new living arrangements—or as pleased as one could be when stuck away from home. For a brief moment, Cullen caught Dorian’s gaze, and then it was _he_ who felt the full brunt of that smile.

It was, Cullen decided, a very nice smile.

The moment came and went though, and Cullen slipped out of the room, winding his way out of the medical bay and eventually out of the Gallows itself. Though it was technically the middle of summer here in the Free Marches, the air was still chilly; in this day and age, seasons could really only be measured by how much sunlight the tower received, and most people didn’t really care—only remembering holidays with the passing of days on their calendars.

Cullen tugged his coat a little more tightly around himself as an evening breeze tried to slip underneath the leather of it, and he made a mental note to ask Mia to get him a scarf the next time she inevitably inquired about what he wanted for his birthday or whatever holiday was coming up next. There was a high chance he wouldn’t bother to write her back in time for her to get him anything, but maybe his sister would magically hit upon the idea one of these days: despite a lack of input from him, her gifts were always practical and well received.

As the temperature dropped as the sun started to set, Cullen hurried through the Circle level, making a beeline toward the templar barracks, which were located close to the Core. Responding to the growing darkness, lyrium lamps started to come alive, casting everything into an eerie, blue light; it didn’t matter that Cullen grew up with such contraptions: it still seemed so unnatural, though they definitely helped with navigating the dark streets.

Drawing closer to the Core, he started to run into more and more mages leaving for the Gallows for the night. While he always looked forward to kicking back and turning in for the evening, Cullen hated the trip back to the barracks and having to see the mages: he hated seeing the empty look in their eyes and the defeated curve of their shoulders. These individuals were nothing like the mages that served in other areas of Kirkwall, and they certainly weren’t like Dorian: honestly, it felt like they were a mere step away from being Tranquil.

Once upon a time, he’d tried smiling at the mages as they walked past him, but when he was met with only dull stares or frosty glares, Cullen had stopped trying to meet their eyes, content to drop his gaze to the ground whenever one of them drew near. He still felt a pang of guilt for the mages’ predicament, but what could he do? Templars kept watch in the Core—more stringently than in any other part of Kirkwall—but Cullen had never been assigned there: he hoped that he never would be, based off of what he heard and saw. It was said to even change the templars stationed there, and as far as he was concerned, the Core was a necessary evil.

And yet, Dorian seemed to suggest that mages did _not_ need to suffer the way that they did in working the reactor, that there was a way to keep towers aloft without taking such a toll on the individuals who kept it up and running.

Quickly bypassing the stone and steel structure that housed the Core, Cullen audibly sighed in relief when he stepped into the well-lit lobby of the templar barracks. He knew that their men were housed _here_ rather than closer to the Gallows because of how much more important the Core was, but when he stepped past those heavy steel doors, Cullen tried to block out what was going on outside.

It used to work well, but since the arrival of a certain mage in Kirkwall, Cullen found that his thoughts drifted ever more regularly to Dorian.

Given how much time they spent together now, Cullen knew it was to be expected to a certain degree. Since Dorian was awake and truly _stable_ , Wynne no longer spent all of her time in attendance. She would still come by now and again, of course, but for most of the day, it was just the two of them, which meant a lot of chatting with one Dorian Pavus.

Provided that they weren’t discussing the matter of _why_ a mage from Minrathous was here in Kirkwall, Dorian was charming to a fault and a huge flirt to boot. Cullen had long since lost count of how many times the man had blatantly hit on him, and he was, unfortunately, not immune to his charms. On more than one occasion, Cullen had given Barris an embarrassed look on his way out, and then man had just smiled at him as if he _knew_ what was going on.

He wondered if Dorian flirted with Barris, too, but he didn’t have the heart to ask.

When he not busy trying to hide his blush, they discussed more mundane things. Cullen talked about his family living in Lowtown and about why he’d become a templar; Dorian never mentioned his own family, but he could go on for hours about wine and history, about literature and the stars. More often than not, Cullen simply listened to Dorian talk, commenting only on occasion to nudge Dorian into continuing, and if he could make the mage talk about more personal things, he counted that as a win.

For instance, Cullen found out that Dorian was fond of reading, and more than once, he’d returned to his room in the barracks, stared at his bookshelf, and promptly decided that he didn’t have anything a mage from Minrathous would want to read. (Mostly, they were books on the Chant and mabari. Dorian didn’t seem particularly interested in the Chantry, especially the southern version of it, and he had sniffed—actually _sniffed_!—in disdain at the mention of dogs.) Still, Cullen couldn’t help but feel a little frustrated with Alim when he’d shown up two nights ago with a large basket filled with books; the elated look on Dorian’s face made his discontent all the worse.

(Not that he was _jealous_ or anything.)

Since then, Cullen had continued to think about what he could bring to stave off Dorian’s boredom because as much as the mage liked to talk, there were still times when he’d just take a nap in the middle of the day as he had nothing else better to do. A sleeping Dorian obviously meant a very bored (and secretly disappointed) Cullen, and it was, in a weird way, in his best interests to keep the mage awake; honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure how Barris put up with having nothing to do all night.

The man devoured literature like a fiend, but Alim had already promised to bring more books from the Gallows library when Dorian started to run out of reading materials. Cullen _could_ technically take books from there as well, but that would like seem a bit odd for a templar to be looking around for tomes on magical theory; he wasn’t even sure he would be able to pick out good material in any case.

Resigned to spend another evening of being unable to come up with any ideas for entertaining Dorian, Cullen removed his gauntlets, shed his coat, and stowed both items in their place. As he started to work open the clasps of his breastplate, though, he found himself looking at the deck of cards carefully placed in the middle of his bed.

Frowning, he stared at it, more than a little certain that that had _not_ been there this morning. Cullen wasn’t even _sure_ that he owned a deck of cards, especially a new one, which this was upon closer inspection. There was no note and no sign of entry into his room as to suggest _how_ said cards had appeared here.

Still, it _could_ be something that he could give to Dorian.

After removing and stowing his breastplate, he dropped the deck of cards into the pocket of his coat. Content for the time being, Cullen grabbed his shower supplies, intent on getting cleaned up before turning in for the night.

The following day found Cullen heading back to the Gallows feeling light on his feet. Barris cocked a brow at him in curiosity when he showed up, but Cullen waved off those unspoken questions, holding his tongue until his fellow templar left for the day. Dorian was going through his morning abulations, though he did pause in brushing his hair to offer Cullen a brief smile before returning his attention to the mirror.

“You seem to be in good spirits, Ser Rutherford,” he said, and Cullen couldn’t help but duck his head; he must have truly been obvious to have Dorian pick up on his mood so quickly. He fished inside his pocket for the deck of cards and set it down on the bedside table.

“I found something you might like.”

Now working his hair into a loose plait, Dorian came back over to the bed to take a look at what Cullen had left on the bedside table. Picking up the deck of cards, the mage’s lips twitched into a smile as he let the cards slip out of the box and into his hands. “Do you play? I’ve been told I’m a fair hand at Wicked Grace, but then again, I’m a fair hand at everything I do.”

“I do, but…”

“But?” Dorian’s eyebrow was arched now as he started to shuffle the cards.

“I can’t.”

The mage now looked baffled as he sank back down onto the bed. The cards and the box they came in went back to the bedside table as Dorian bundled himself back up with blankets, and then Dorian was shuffling the cards again. “You came here with this deck of cards, and you’re not even going to play with me?”

“My duty prevents me from doing so.”

“Then this is… what?”

“A… gift?”

“Wooing me now, are you, ser knight?” Dorian replied, another smile easing its way back onto his face. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders as if defeated, but Dorian then proceeded to lay out the cards on top of the bed, clearly intent on playing some solo card game since Cullen had refused his offer. “First you offer me blankets, and now you offer me cards.

“Not very traditional, but I suppose that that is still acceptable, given how flora is a premium item these days.”

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Would you have even accepted flowers?”

“From you? Of course.” Dorian smiled, and Cullen swallowed before clearing his throat, which only made the mage’s grin broaden. “So what do you want to know about today? We’re probably on question two hundred and fifty-three by this point, but no matter: I’ll keep on entertaining you as long as it pleases me.”

There was a _slight_ edge to Dorian’s voice—a warning not to go _there_. Everything else was fair game, though the mage did sidestep certain questions every now and then. While it wasn’t exactly a minefield, per se, Cullen now knew better than to ask too deeply about Minrathous or Dorian’s family, and today, well—

“Why on foot?”

Dorian stared at the arrangement of cards on his bed for a moment before flipping over the top card in the deck he still held in his hands; with a brief smile, he set it down on the bed and then directed his attention back to Cullen. “I told you, I opted to take the scenic route.” When Cullen did not look convinced, Dorian continued with his game for a little longer before sighing. 

“I _was_ actually traveling by ship, but, _lucky me_ , my vessel was shipwrecked in a storm.” That caused Cullen to stare, as this was new information, and it was at that moment that Cullen remembered that Meredith _had_ mentioned a Warden vessel not showing up at their port. Could it have been one and the same? While Dorian had said that he had been heading for Val Royeaux, Warden ships _did_ usually stop by each tower along the coast, picking up and dropping off passengers along the way to their final destination. Either way, he was genuinely surprised that Dorian was sharing this information.

“I’m not sure what happened to anyone else, but after I got over the fact that I was now alone in Blight-infested lands, I didn’t exactly linger about when I saw no one immediately in my vicinity.”

“That’s understandable. I would have done the same.”

“Would you have? You seem to be the sort to wander the coastline looking for survivors.” Dorian’s smile was not unkind, but there was a bittersweet note to his voice. His attention went back to his cards, and the two of them actually went silent until a few minutes later when a servant arrived with breakfast: a broth for Dorian and some bread, cheese, and fruit for Cullen. At seeing the difference in their food items, the mage huffed but took his bowl with no further complaint; it was Wynne, after all, who was deciding his meal plan, and there was no point in complaining to Cullen.

“So how did you… escape the Darkspawn?”

“Magic.” Dorian wiggled his fingers in what was supposed to be a magical fashion, and Cullen barely repressed the urge to roll his eyes. This drew a chuckle from the mage before he shook his head. “Truly, though, it was magic: barrier spells will do wonders to protect you from nasty things.”

“Just barrier spells? Surely someone who is possibly a magister in Minrathous has more than that up his sleeves.”

“I don’t expect a templar to appreciate my full arsenal of spells, but rest assured that I _am_ a very accomplished mage. The best from Minrathous, even.”

Cullen laughed at that and didn’t press any further; he recognized the deflection for what it was. Well, whatever Dorian had used to get here had worked, though it had clearly cost him. He and Barris had had discussions about whether or not Dorian was a blood mage, but Alim had overheard them speaking, quickly cutting off that line of conversation with a stony-faced assertion that their mage guest would not do such a thing and did not bear any signs of blood magic use.

They lapsed into silence again as they ate, though Cullen could tell that Dorian was shooting him subtle looks now and again—or rather, not him but his food. He pitied the mage, noting the hunger he saw there, but something this heavy would be too much for him right now. Keeping his eyes focused on his own food, Cullen tried not to think too hard about the toll the journey had taken on the mage, and by the time he finished his breakfast and gathered their eating utensils back onto the tray they came on, he’d just about succeeded in forgetting what Dorian had looked like while watching him eat.

“Are you sure you really can’t play a few hands with me?” Before he could even reply, Dorian was waving a hand at him, batting away whatever excuses he had. “Yes, yes, I realize it’s against the rules, but I don’t think Wynne will care, and who else is going to come here?”

“The… servants?”

“The servants who come at breakfast, lunch, and dinner and at no other time?”

Cullen didn’t really have a good argument for that, and he frowned as he tried to come up with some excuse— _any_ excuse. Dorian clearly could tell he was winning here, what with that shit-eating grin on his face, and he scooped all of the cards back into his deck and waved it in the air.

“This will be a secret between you and me. I won’t even tell Ser Barris.” Dorian winked, and that was Cullen sold right there. “Promise.”

Cullen sighed and dragged a chair over to the bed, much to Dorian’s delight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd a POV swap. :)
> 
> I gotta say that I'm rather pleased that I've been able to keep to an unofficial posting schedule. Hope I can keep it up. *^*

Somewhere in Minrathous, Dorian was certain that a number of cultist mages were plotting what would undoubtedly cause more problems for what remained of the grand Tevinter Imperium. If he was very unlucky, that same group of mages was already leaving the safety of their tower, pushing the second phase of their plan into play. Dorian had actually _left_ Minrathous in the hopes of putting a stop to this madness, and yet, here he was: stuck in Kirkwall and practically an invalid.

Recovery was not a state that Dorian was well familiar with.

He’d never been starved, never suffered more than some very minor and very superficial injuries. The weakness in his body frustrated him beyond belief, never mind the fact that even a week after waking, Dorian was still barely able to sustain a small flame in his hand for more than a minute. The exercise left him trembling and drained; cold sweat dotted his forehead, and he’d be left panting as that unpleasant _emptiness_ sat there in his chest where his magic was supposed to be. If either Wynne or Alim were present, they would chastise him for being so reckless— _reckless_!

Since childhood, Dorian had never struggled to call upon such wisps, as simple a spell as it was, and yet, his trek across Thedas had reduced him to this: a mage in title only. Though he wanted to snap and snarl at how slowly his body was recovering, Dorian knew better than to expose this feebleness to his keepers. Oh, they knew that he was still weak, but he didn’t want them to know exactly _how_ weak—the templars especially.

Ser Barris and Ser Rutherford, kind though they had been to him, were likely still reporting back to the infamous Knight-Captain Stanndard, and Dorian _definitely_ didn’t want her to know anything about him. Still, he did have to fit in halting magical exercises into his schedule at _some_ point, so it was impossible to hide everything from the templars. Barris took everything in stride, quiet and observing, but Cullen always developed a slight furrow in his brow, like he _pitied_ Dorian.

“Why do you push yourself so hard?” the templar asked one day, watching as Dorian frowned at his hand when the flame flickered out; he tried not to wonder if he looked as unwell as he felt right now. “Wynne says that given all that has happened to you that you shouldn’t be casting at all for at least three weeks.

“You aren’t even on a normal diet yet.”

“Tell me, ser knight: if your arm was broken and you’d been told to wait three weeks to use it, wouldn’t you be frustrated? I am a _mage_ , and yet, I cannot cast even the simplest of spells.” Though his word choice was perhaps on the harsh side, there was a lopsided smile on Dorian’s lips, immediately softening his message. Really, there was no point in angering Cullen, especially not when he had been such a good ally thus far, occupation be damned. “It’s simply been a long time since I have not had the use of my magic.”

“Do you use magic for _everything_ in Minrathous?”

“Not everything, no, but it’s like… having a limb severed.” Cullen quirked a brow at him, and Dorian’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he shrugged a shoulder. “Not that I’ve ever had a limb removed, but calling upon my magic was as natural as breathing.

“The feeling is deeply unpleasant.”

Cullen made a non-committal noise, and Dorian sighed, settling back against the head of the bed with his legs crossed at his ankles. Though he had free rein of the medical bay, his minders still forbade him from wandering into the Gallows proper. Alim had actually said that that was for the best, given that he was less exposed to the other templars this way, and that only enforced Dorian’s perception of how poorly the rest of the Order behaved to provoke such a warning.

Thankfully, for as large as the Gallows were, Dorian had only met a handful of people since waking—mostly other mages. The First Enchanter had come by to greet him, and when Dorian had requested to speak to Grand Cleric Elthina, Orsino had simply given him a sympathetic look before telling him that he would try to arrange a meeting; Dorian hadn’t been too hopeful given the expression on the elf’s face.

Was it really so wrong for a mage to want to speak with the head of the Chantry? He knew that seeking to speak with someone who held so much power would be difficult, but Dorian had still held out hope that he, as a guest from Minrathous, would hold some sway, especially since he had floated the idea that he was a magister. He wasn’t, of course, but no one had to know that: there _was_ , after all, a Magister Pavus, but hopefully no one would actually bother to find out that it was his father and not him—not right now at least.

In any case, it was true that Dorian had information that he needed to share. As if reading his mind, Cullen asked, “So what you wanted to tell the Grand Cleric—?”

“Back to the straightforward approach, are we? I’m still not telling you, regardless of how many times you ask,” Dorian said, more amused than anything else. He and Cullen had had this conversation at least once every day since moving to his new quarters, and while it had initially led to some annoyance on his part, Dorian found a strange sort of routine in it now. The templar usually ended up laughing softly before shrugging his shoulders, content to drop the subject; they did, after all, have far better and more interesting topics to discuss.

Today, though, Cullen merely frowned at him, the knit in his brow deepening. The soured expression caused worry to flare up within him, and Dorian narrowed his eyes at him. Did something happen higher up then? Was Stannard becoming impatient with the lack of information from their northern visitor?

“Is there really nothing you can tell me, Lord Pavus?” Cullen asked, his voice quiet and his gaze intent. There was something so… _eager_ about the way that the man looked at him, like he was asking for _Dorian’s_ sake, not his own—not for the Knight-Captain. “If you do not feel comfortable divulging everything, then at least something— _anything_.”

“Pressure from above, is it? And here I had been hoping it would be like any other day.”

“Knight-Captain Stannard has been hoping for news from the other towers.”

“Well, was there something in particular that she wanted to know about Minrathous? It still stands, if she’s curious; I’m no refugee, I can assure you of that much. We’ve had no reports of other towers falling either. What else does she wish to know?”

“Why you’re here.”

“I told you, I was hoping to go to Val Royeaux. Stopping by Kirkwall was merely happenstance.”

Cullen sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. For a moment, it looked like he was going to speak again, but he merely shifted, leaning against the back of the chair he was seated in and folding his arms across his chest. They had been playing cards together again before Dorian stopped to read a little and work on his magic; Cullen had taken to watching him as he always did, like he was the most interesting thing in the room—which, admittedly, he probably was.

Still, the troubled look on Cullen’s face bothered him. After all, what troubled his keepers would likely come to trouble _him_ soon enough.

“The Knight-Captain is also curious as to how you obtained so much lyrium.”

“Pardon?”

“Given the state of your body as well as how much lyrium you still had in your belongings when you arrived, it seemed that you were very well stocked, even for a mage from Minrathous…”

_Damn._ Dorian had completely forgotten about that, and given how no one had _mentioned_ anything as of yet, he had thought that all of his things had been lost during the last rush to get to Kirkwall. To this day, he couldn’t really remember what had happened when he’d broken past the outer walls of the tower.

“You’ve been holding onto that information for a while,” he finally said, doing his level best to keep the hurt out of his voice. “Shall I assume that the Knight-Captain also has my staff with her?” While it was certainly a fine piece of craftsmanship, Dorian cared less about actually losing it so much as the fact that it had been stripped from him, like he was a common criminal.

“I thought you would bring it up yourself at some point.” Cullen did, at least, have the sense to look a little abashed by his statement. “But yes, your staff is in her office.”

Dorian huffed and shook his head, looking a little displeased and a little irritated. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter, as if to shut out some nonexistent breeze.

“Can you guarantee my safety if I talk?” he said finally, lips pressed into a thin line. Dorian knew that he didn’t really have any space to bargain, if push came to shove, and really, he wasn’t entirely sure any of his information would buy him safety—that it wouldn’t keep him out of a Circle and away from Kirkwall’s Core.

If this had been Val Royeaux, the worst that Dorian had to fear was that he was laughed at and thrown from the Chantry. His ego would be bruised, certainly, but Dorian wouldn’t have feared for his freedom. Rumors of the cruelty toward mages in Kirkwall was famous in Minrathous: it was a fabled place that parents brought up to scare their children into behaving.

It was quite possible that only Cullen and Barris stood between him and the true nature of the Gallows.

“What do you mean by safety, Lord Pavus? Who or what would attack you here? Are you on the run from someone in Minrathous?”

“I fear nothing from Minrathous, my dear knight.” That wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t need to put more on the table than that right now. “It’s your templars that worry me.”

Cullen frowned at him then, clearly confused by that. “Sorry, but… you want protection from the Order?”

“Surely you can understand where my worry comes from,” Dorian reasoned, his brow creased. “A foreign mage, all but stripped of his abilities, stuck in a tower that is not exactly known to be friendly to its magical inhabitants…

“To tell you the truth, Ser Rutherford, I do sometimes wonder if someone already took some of my blood to store in a phylactery while I was unconscious. It’s not something we have in Minrathous, but I have heard that it’s a common practice here in the south.” 

“We would never do that,” Cullen retorted, looking aghast. Dorian chuckled humorlessly and shrugged his shoulders. If Cullen simply meant himself and Barris in that statement of _we_ , he could probably believe it, but there were more than two templars in the Order.

“Not you personally, no. I trust you more than that.” It was, perhaps, a little unnerving to Dorian that he meant that—that despite how brief a time period they’d known each other that he did think that much of Cullen. “However, it would make it much easier for the rest of the templars to keep track of me, lest I slip out of their grasp before I give them what they want.”

Cullen suddenly got to his feet, and Dorian flinched despite himself. When he noticed his reaction, though, Cullen sat back down, and while he didn’t look _angry_ , Cullen _did_ look hurt, like Dorian’s words had cut him deep. When he spoke next, the templar’s voice was soft, as if speaking to a startled animal, and in a way, Dorian guessed that he probably seemed like one right now. “Is that how you look at us? We’ve sworn to protect you from the populace.” When Dorian looked at him with an arched brow, Cullen swallowed and continued.

“And the populace from you.”

“And?”

“And to protect you from yourself.”

“All fine goals and perfectly reasonable, but it’s less the rules that worry me so much as the people enforcing them.” Dorian pulled his blanket around himself a little tighter and tried not to think too hard about how Cullen had been the one to give it to him—that Cullen had been thoughtful enough to see that the bedding provided by the medical staff had not been enough. “Your Knight-Captain’s infamy is far-reaching.”

“How do you even know?”

“Ah, yes. How _do_ we know? That is the question isn’t it? Kirkwall has a policy against letting its mages onto Warden ships, I’m guessing?” Cullen dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, not looking particularly proud of that admission. Dorian wasn’t surprised by that, but it did make his own departure from here a bit more complicated. Would they hold him even though he wasn’t a citizen of Kirkwall? How would he even prove that he was from Minrathous? There was no point in worrying about that just yet though, given his physical state, so he let that concern slide for the time being. “Well, we’ve had ‘refugees’ come to Minrathous. Usually mages, you see.

“They tell us things, and while the life of a Laetan is probably not the dream they imagined for themselves in Minrathous, I don’t doubt that it’s far better than what they have here, slaving away in the Core as they do.” 

“It’s hard work maintaining the Core, but it’s necessary.” Cullen’s response seemed almost mechanical, repeating something he’d had drilled into him.

“Tell me, Ser Rutherford, have you ever been to another tower? Have you ever seen how their Cores are run? Or how about your own?” It would have been so easy to make his words bite, but what point would there be in alienating one of his few allies here in Kirkwall? Still, Dorian had to make Cullen understand.

“You will find no mage more beaten down than one living in Kirkwall, save perhaps in Qunandar.” Despite his words, Dorian knew that many were unsure as to whether or not the tower still stood. The Qunari were a secretive lot from the very beginning, and with communication largely cut off as it was, knowledge of what was happening there was scarce; the Wardens did not visit Qunandar. “I withhold my information because I fear that if I don’t have anything to offer—anything to protect myself with—that I’ll be forced to serve in the Core.”

Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck and shook his head, as if at a loss. “What would you have me do then? Summon the tower guard to protect you from us?”

Dorian opened his mouth and then shut it. That right there could work. The tower guard would likely be more sympathetic to the plight of a mage than a templar, right? Though, Dorian supposed that it would also be heavily dependent on what the guard captain was like.

“Perhaps.”

“And then you’ll talk?”

“Again, perhaps.”

Cullen sighed and briefly buried his face in his hands. It made Dorian feel a touch of guilt, knowing that the man was just trying to do his job and that he was making it more difficult. Given that one templar keeper was agonizing over this, he didn’t doubt for a moment that Barris would likely become more insistent with his questionings as well. At least with him, though, Dorian could pretend that he was sleeping; that was a considerably more difficult feat with Cullen.

Truthfully, Dorian wasn’t _trying_ to withhold information. The sooner that word got out, the sooner Minrathous could seek aid from itself. The Magisterium wasn’t on the verge of collapse or anything, no, but the cultists—or the _Venatori_ , as they preferred to call themselves… Dorian knew that they had infiltrated the Altus circles, and the longer the infestation was allowed to fester, the worse things would become.

All of the powerful houses in Minrathous were talking about the entity called the _Elder One_ —a magister, supposedly, from eras long gone. The Venatori promised that his revival would lead to an end to the Blight and Tevinter’s return to glory, though details on the how were a bit fuzzy. Halward Pavus did not invite his wayward son to the conversation when a hooded man paid a visit to the manor one rainy evening, but Dorian gleaned enough information from his best friend, who _had_ been allowed to listen in while _his_ father had received his invitation to join the Venatori, to decide that this whole thing was bad news for all involved.

Believers in the Elder One thought him capable of communing with the Darkspawn—of controlling them.

While some might hail such an individual as the savior of Thedas when the Wardens had failed so utterly to stop the Blight that had now plagued the world for several millennia, Dorian was not so sure. The Elder One sounded too much like an Archdemon, and he certainly wasn’t going to throw his allegiance behind one of those things.

Still, what the Venatori promised must appealing to _some_ , given that their following was growing, and Dorian was rather hoping that the Chantry would have something to say about that. The Divine held the most sway over the most number of people in Thedas, despite the way the world had fragmented, and Val Royeaux still had the largest standing army outside of Minrathous. They were, essentially, the only tower that had enough power and influence to rout the Venatori. Of course, all of this just brought him back to his current problem: he was stuck in Kirkwall with no way to speak to the Grand Cleric, never mind the Divine.

“The Knight-Captain won’t be pleased about this.” The words were spoken like a warning, though the expression on the templar’s face did not suggest that Cullen was using them like a threat: it was a mere statement of what he believed to be fact. 

“Not used to mouthy mages, is she?”

“No. No, she is not.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyyy, more characters finally. \o/ Not entirely sure they're worth tagging as of yet though. Hm.

Cullen, to his credit, had tried to get the captain of the tower guard to visit Dorian. Aveline Vallen, he had said, was an honest woman who would do her best to uphold justice—and not the skewed sort either. She was level-headed and fair, and from the sounds of it, Aveline was interested in offering Dorian the protection of the guard based off of the information Cullen had provided her.

However, as soon as the captain had set a single foot in the Gallows, Meredith had drawn the line. This was _her_ jurisdiction, the Knight-Captain had claimed, and while a few heated words were reportedly exchanged, Aveline had eventually backed down and left. Barris had witnessed the exchange on his way back to the barracks and had mentioned it when he came back that evening, and from the look on his face, he’d been impressed with the guard captain.

Now, a visitor did eventually show up to speak to Dorian and offer a proverbial olive branch, but instead of Aveline, it was a Chantry sister.

At the start, Dorian didn’t like her based off of the hard look in her eyes, and that dislike only grew when this _Sister Petrice_ started to talk to him. “I will be sure to pass on your message directly to the Grand Cleric,” she promised, her smile fake, at the end of a rather long, preachy dialogue about the Chantry, and Dorian had replied in kind with a plastic grin of his own.

“You’ll open my letter as soon as you’re out of view, and it will never reach the Grand Cleric. Please: spare me your lies and leave me in peace.”

She’d given Cullen a look of shock and disgust, and it was clear that she was expecting the templar to jump to his feet in her defense. Dorian’s smirk grew teeth as he watched as Cullen stayed right where he was, his expression passive.

“Ser knight,” she demanded, all but stamping her foot. “You’ll allow this treatment?”

“His words will do you no physical harm, Sister,” he replied calmly, though the look he shot at Dorian did seem to suggest some worry—not about the interloper though. Sister Petrice huffed in anger and stormed out of the room, promising retribution that could be heard all the way down the hall. Wynne had seemed rather amused by the entire exchange when she came by to check on Dorian later on, and the two of them had had a good laugh at the sister’s expense.

A month into his stay at Kirkwall, and Dorian was walking on his own now, steady on his feet though still easily tired out. Using his magic for anything but the simplest of tasks exhausted him, but he liked to think that he was capable enough that he could actually be _considered_ a mage now. If nothing else, Dorian didn’t feel so _empty_ anymore, and he felt better for not being so completely drained of his mana—for being so _helpless_.

The main issue was this: with his improved health came increased demands to capitulate to the Knight-Captain and her demands for his information. Cullen was asking him multiple times a day now with a pained expression, and while Barris hadn’t started to wake him up in the middle of the night, they spoke of almost nothing else these days. Even Wynne and Alim seemed a little harried, though they thankfully never pressed Dorian for anything; it felt like a stand of solidarity, and he appreciated his mage allies.

It likely didn’t help that, every other day, Meredith would send different templars to speak to him, to try and force the information from him. Unfortunately, these unscheduled visits meant that he couldn’t even try to ease the tension with his templar allies with a game of cards, and Dorian worried that this was eroding his relationship with them.

Today was just another one of those days when a random Stannard lackey would pay him a visit. This time around, his visitor was an angry looking man with ginger hair, and it was obvious about five minutes into the conversation that this particular templar would have loved nothing more than to sink his fist into Dorian’s face but that he couldn’t. Dorian’s wit was the sharper of the two of them, as was typically the case, but unlike many of the previous templars he’d spoken to, this man’s temper was considerably less pleasant.

At one point, even Cullen had gotten to his feet, placing a heavy hand against the man’s shoulder, as if warning him from doing something. Dorian wasn’t particularly sure _what_ had almost happened, but the thin press of Cullen’s lips suggested that it wasn’t good.

“How can you stand his behavior?” the templar had asked, all but snarling at Cullen, who gripped at the pommel of his sword, fingers twitching a little in agitation. The man pulled away from Cullen’s hand and took another step toward Dorian, who found himself reaching instinctively for his magic, depleted though it still might be. “It’s mages like this who need to be put down, Rutherford.

“He won’t be fit to serve in the Core like this. You need to break him in before he gets any stronger.”

“Mettin…” Cullen shook his head, disapproving. “Lord Pavus isn’t _going_ to the Core.”

“I should tell the Knight-Captain that you’ve been too soft on the Vint. That’s why he hasn’t said anything.”

“Lord Pavus is a guest of Kirkwall tower, not a prisoner,” Cullen responded, and this Mettin character simply barked a harsh laugh.

“Mages aren’t _guests_. You know this as well as I do.”

“I’m right here, you know.”

“And if I had anything to say about it, you’d be over _there_ , working in the Core with the other mages.” Mettin turned his attention back to Cullen, who glowered at him in a way that said that he had _words_ for the man but was withholding them out of a sense of propriety. “Take care of your Vint, Rutherford, before you get yourself in trouble with the Knight-Captain.”

Cullen didn’t rise to the threat, though he did look positively disgusted when Mettin finally left—though not without giving Dorian another look of disdain as he stepped out of the room. When the man finally disappeared from view and from earshot, Dorian sagged against the head of the bed with a heavy sigh. “Well, that was certainly _pleasant_.”

“We shouldn’t have argued. You’ll be in trouble now.”

“Maybe I will be, but I’m not going to let some templar boss me around.” 

Those were brave words for someone still recovering, but he was an enchanter from Minrathous—a bloody _noble_ with family lines tracing back to the original dreamers when Tevinter was a sprawling empire, not a lone tower rending the sky. Though his health and position could certainly be better, Dorian had no intention of allowing such rudeness to dictate his behavior.

He had made a simple request to speak to the Grand Cleric or to have the protection of the tower guard. That was all he wanted in order to share his information, and he thought that the latter option was a rather generous concession on his part. The Knight-Captain’s responses told him all he needed to know about how he would be treated _after_ he divulged his knowledge though, which only served to make Dorian even less willing to part with it unless his own demands were met.

Kirkwall would jail him eventually, and he needed to work on an escape plan.

In his free time (which he had plenty of), he wrote letters to Felix, knowing they’d probably never leave the Gallows, never mind Kirkwall, but in the off chance that they did, it would do well for his friend to know that he was still alive, despite his unexpected silence since his departure from Minrathous. Dorian wrote nothing about the Elder One and certainly didn’t include his thoughts on Kirkwall, lest they provoke more trouble, but he did mention that he was here in this tower; that in itself would tell a Tevinter more than enough to know that he was in trouble. 

And so, the days passed, blurring into one another.

Five weeks and three days had passed since Dorian had taken refuge in Kirkwall. He’d sent another templar off with not a shred of information that morning, the woman’s face red and her eyes flashing, but she had just clenched her fists and stormed off. Cullen looked after her retreating figure with a deep furrow in his brow—one that deepened with every passing day.

“It’ll become permanent that way,” Dorian murmured, knowing that the crease was etched so deep that his words were already far too late. Cullen said nothing in response and only gave him a flickering look of worry before glancing away again. It was sweet, in a way, to see that his keeper was so concerned about him, and more than once, Dorian had wondered if he could wrangle Cullen into helping him with an escape plan; he seemed easier to sway than Barris, who was still kind to him but far more likely to stick to the rules.

Then again, Cullen’s worry might have just been because he knew who was coming later that day.

Meredith Stannard cut an imposing figure as she marched into the medical bay, and Dorian looked up from his hand, the small flame in his palm extinguishing immediately. He had barely the time to open his mouth in greeting when he felt what little mana he had being drained out of him, the pull of it causing his eyes to go wide in shock as his hands clutched at his chest, as if he could somehow prevent what was happening.

Before, when he’d exhausted himself, it had left him feeling cold and empty, but this sensation right here was intensely _wrong_. His magic was being wrenched from him, the experience dirty and degrading, and when Meredith finally stopped whatever it was that she was doing, Dorian’s chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. He fixed her with a look that no doubt demonstrated his fear, and behind her, Dorian saw Cullen stepping forward, his jaw locked and apprehension rising in his gaze.

“I was patient with you, mage, but you continue to defy me in _my_ tower. Who do you think you are, making such demands of myself and my men?” She came over to his bed and raised her arm, gauntleted hand whipping across his face. There was a moment of stunned shock where Dorian did nothing but take in the fact that he had just been hit; the shuffling noise from behind the Knight-Captain was probably Cullen moving—to do what, Dorian didn’t know. To protest? To stop her?

“Ser Stannard—” Cullen started, glaring at the woman as anger overrode his shock; his hand grasped her shoulder, as if to pull her back, but she brusquely shrugged him off. To have his magic stripped from him was bad enough, but to be handled in this manner? Oh, Dorian was not going to stand for this. “Why are you doing this!? Hitting those seeking refuge in your walls now?”

Instead of responding to Cullen, the Knight-Captain backhanded Dorian, and he could taste copper on his tongue; his cheeks stung, and it was a small wonder that she hadn’t broken skin. He could feel himself reaching instinctively for his magic, only to come up empty, and that only increased his upset—and reminded him all too well that he was truly defenseless here, that this templar could have him made tranquil or killed if she wanted. “What information have you been withholding from us? Speak now or—”

“What is going on here?” There was the sound of quickly approaching footsteps outside his room, but Dorian didn’t dare take his eyes off of Meredith; he didn’t trust what she would do next. In his peripheral vision, Cullen was hovering nearby. There was obvious discomfort in his stance, and Dorian couldn’t see his hands. Were they on his weapons? Clenched into fists? The man looked close to doing something incredibly bad for his career, and Dorian found an odd sense of comfort in that, even as the interloper came closer, finally appearing in Dorian’s line of sight.

“First Enchanter.”

“Knight-Captain.”Orsino came to stand next to his bed, circling an arm around his shoulders. “What are you doing to our guest?” There was a brief flash of cool magic against his skin, and the pain in his cheeks subsided. “You do realize that such treatment of him is unacceptable: he’s not a mage in our Circle.”

_He’s not a mage in our Circle?_ Those words caused Dorian to look at Orsino. _So_ , this sort of behavior _was_ considered normal here in Kirkwall then. 

“When he withholds information that is vital to the continued safety of my tower, he becomes my responsibility,” Meredith stated, and it took all that Dorian had to not spit fire at her. The hand at his shoulder tightened, as if to reassure him that no further harm would come to him—not now, at least. “He has repeatedly stated that he has information that he wishes to tell the Grand Cleric and only the Grand Cleric.”

“And I have requested that you allow him to do so. Repeatedly!”

“I will not have the Grand Cleric put in danger by visiting this _apostate_.”

“He is not an apostate! I have no doubt that he is registered with Minrathous Circle.” Orsino looked over at Dorian, brow furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. Dorian, of course, nodded his head and pressed a hand lightly to his jaw; even if he wasn’t, he probably would have answered in the positive, if only to press upon the Knight-Captain the fact that _he wasn’t hers to control_.

“Knight-Captain Stannard, no harm will come to the Grand Cleric if we are here to watch—”

All eyes turned to Cullen then, who flushed under their scrutiny but stood firm in his resolve. Apparently, the man was not used to speaking out of turn like this, and his Adam’s apple bobbed before he spoke again. “As he is, he can barely maintain a single flame, let alone do any actual damage…”

“Ser Rutherford, you are a fool for trusting mages.” Meredith shook her head and turned her attention back to Dorian. “They hide their abilities. Do not doubt for a second that this man is far more dangerous than you can imagine.”

“I do appreciate your vote of confidence, Knight-Captain,” Dorian bit out, and he sneered when he saw her hand twitch. It was clear that she would have preferred to hit him again, but with Orsino standing right there, she held off, albeit barely. Her fingers curled into a fist again, and Meredith leveled a glare in his direction.

“You wear out your welcome here, mage. You’ll divulge your secrets, or I shall have you thrown out of Kirkwall, may the Blight take you.”

“Knight-Captain—” That was Cullen again, who simply stared at the woman, horrified.

“Would you like to join him, Ser Rutherford?” She was quick to turn on him, and Dorian could _see_ the blood draining out of his face. Noting that her subordinate was appropriately cowed, Meredith nodded her head and stalked back out of the medical bay without another word. Cullen’s gaze flickered between the open door and the floor before he went to stand in the doorway, leaning against the metal frame.

It was obvious that he didn’t want to be here anymore, but Cullen kept to his duty; in this way, he still _technically_ was keeping an eye on Dorian, albeit just barely. Dorian huffed softly in annoyance and then turned his attention to Orsino, who was frowning, eyes still trained on the open door, as if Meredith would suddenly return.

“Thank you for your intervention, First Enchanter,” Dorian finally said, causing the elf to look down at him. “I’m not too keen to know what she would have done if you had not arrived when you did.” Though, his timing was most fortuitous—almost eerily so. “May I ask how you knew…?”

Honestly, Dorian wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but a small smile was not it. Orsino’s hand gave his shoulder another squeeze before releasing him. “We’ve a friendly ghost in the Gallows.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian could see that that statement had caught Cullen’s attention, though he was trying his level best to pretend that it hadn’t. He ignored him though, eager to hear more about this so-called ghost. “A spirit? You mean the templars haven’t run it off already?”

“Our friend is a bit more cunning than that.” To Dorian’s massive disappointment, the First Enchanter expanded no further on the details of this particular spirit. With a faint smile still pulling at his lips, Orsino took a step back from the bed then, straightening his cuffs, before leveling a calm look at Dorian. “Will you be all right, Lord Pavus? Shall I post a mage to keep you company?” By the doorway, Cullen tensed a little, turning his head away, though it was difficult to tell if it was from discomfort or something else at hearing those words.

It would make sense to accept Orsino’s offer. After what had been done to him, Dorian didn’t think that anyone would hold it against him to _want_ additional protection and allies, even if the templars here could easily subdue any mage put against them. Pride, admittedly, dictated that he continue this sojourn alone, but pride wouldn’t keep him safe. “I would appreciate the company, yes, especially given that Wynne and Alim do have other duties to attend to.”

“Consider it done, Lord Pavus.” The First Enchanter turned his gaze over to Cullen, who still appeared furtive from his spot by the door. “And shall I request that they change your keepers?” The man twitched a little. “Though, I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be around, given that display with the Knight-Captain.” 

What _of_ Cullen?

Dorian stared at the templar in question as he continued to shift his weight uncomfortably, still trying his best to look like he couldn’t hear every single word of their conversation. Cullen had, thus far, shown himself to be a compassionate soul, and he _had_ stood up to the Knight-Captain, quivering and quailing though he might have been at points. That also didn’t change the fact that compared to all of the other templars he had met, Cullen and Barris had been two of his most stalwart allies.

“Let him stay. Cullen is…” What _was_ Cullen to him? He was certainly more than his keeper now. Dorian thought of all of the conversations they’d had over the past few weeks; he thought of the card games that they’d played and of the laughter that they’d shared. “He is a friend and ally.”

Cullen stiffened at those words, and Dorian could have sworn he saw just a hint of pink to the man’s cheeks before he turned away completely, his back to the two mages in the room. Beside him, Orsino raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. He dipped his head in acknowledgement and stepped out of the room, offering Cullen the briefest hint of a smile as he passed by. Watching the First Enchanter go, Cullen tilted his head just enough for Dorian to see his profile.

The flush was still there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then things go rapidly downhill. 8D

For a while, things… seemed to calm down.

Meredith Stannard’s shadow did not grace the medical bay again, though templars continued to come to visit him on a regular basis: a single individual dropped by his room in the morning and again in the evening. They weren’t particularly pleasant visits, and Dorian had taken to simply ignoring their pestering until they left; it actually got to the point where mage and templar would stare at each other for about thirty seconds before the latter would leave the room without uttering a word.

It had become part of Dorian’s daily routine, as had the magical company that he kept now.

Day and night, a mage was instructed to stay with him, but to Dorian’s disappointment, they were never the same individuals. It was difficult then to develop any rapport—any true sense of comradery—as he had with Wynne and Alim or even Cullen and Barris. Oh, they conversed, certainly, and Dorian did appreciate that they were here for his protection; he just wasn’t sure if they would actually care if something ill befell him.

Still, the people who stayed with him rarely minded joining in for a game of Wicked Grace, and thankfully, they were fine with Cullen participating as well. No coin was exchanged, and the games weren’t quite as _lively_ as they had once been, but it was still a pleasant change of pace that let Dorian forget, even if briefly, that things were not going especially well for him.

His strength was, at least, gradually returning to him, and while he still did nothing to demonstrate the full breadth of his abilities to anyone in the tower, Dorian felt that he could get off one—or maybe even two—good fireballs, if cornered in a fight. It wasn’t particularly impressive compared to how he had been, but Dorian wouldn’t complain, given how long he’d felt like an empty husk when it came to his magic.

As the days dragged by, Dorian started to become more hopeful that Meredith wouldn’t do anything untoward to him until he’d regained the ability to really fight, but all too soon, the peace around him started to crumble.

He first noticed it in the way that Barris changed where he stood watch over him. It wasn’t a dramatic shift by any stretch of the imagination: the templar simply took a few steps over to allow himself a better view of the open door. A few days later, Cullen was doing the same thing and spending more time frowning at the hallway than paying Dorian any heed. When asked, neither man said anything about what was troubling them, which was not particularly unusual, but it did put Dorian on edge.

The situation worsened when his mage company stopped showing up without any explanation: one morning, he awoke to find that the woman who had arrived the evening before had been called away in the middle of the night and that no one else had come to take her place. Barris hadn’t a clue where she’d gone off to, and it wasn’t until Cullen showed up that Dorian discovered that he wasn’t _allowed_ to have any company aside from his two minders now.

“They’ve posted more templars around the medical bay,” Cullen muttered, scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. “I know it’s no fun being cooped up in this room, but I don’t recommend going out.”

“What does the Knight-Captain intend to do? Did she say anything?” Barris asked, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Keep me here until I capitulate, I imagine.”

“She wouldn’t say.” Cullen shot a quick look toward the hall, as if other templars would suddenly be clamoring to enter the room. Given the tension in the air, Dorian couldn’t blame him. “That’s what worries me. I don’t think she trusts me anymore.”

“I’ll speak with her. Perhaps she will still fill me in on her plans.” The two men shared a look before Barris took his leave, promising Dorian that he would be back that night.

The remainder of the day was uncomfortable, though Dorian did try to alleviate the mood by drawing Cullen in for one of their customary card games. Admittedly, neither of them really had the heart for it, and both men would end up staring at their cards for far too long before playing a hand, their thoughts far off and decidedly unpleasant.

When Barris returned that evening, Cullen seemed hesitant to leave. He had a long conversation in hushed tones with his fellow knight as they stood by the door, and when he finally turned to go, Cullen cast a lingering look in Dorian’s direction. “I don’t know what’s happening, Lord Pavus,” he confessed. “But please stay safe. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

And then he was gone.

“Care to fill me in, Ser Barris?” Dorian asked, arching a brow at the man. The templar took the chair that Cullen usually occupied and dragged it over to the bed—an unusual move for Barris, who almost always stayed at a distance.

“Knight-Captain Meredith would not speak to me this morning, and I suspect that she thinks that Ser Rutherford and I have both come under your thrall.” Dorian’s lips pressed into a thin line at that—at the implication that he would resort to something like blood magic. “But I do not doubt that she is planning something. In all my time here with the templars, I have not seen her post so many individuals around a single mage.”

“Prisoner, you mean,” Dorian bit out, glowering. Barris merely nodded his head.

“This information that you have—” He held up a hand when it looked like Dorian was about to interrupt him; bristling internally at being silenced, Dorian held his tongue, albeit just barely. His temper cooled when Barris resumed speaking though. “I understand why you will not share it, especially now that I see how all of this has unfolded.” Barris’ gaze flickered over to the open door; he’d been speaking in tones low enough to not carry, but Dorian leaned in closer all the same, knowing that whatever came out of the man’s mouth next would be damning for the knight if anyone else heard. “If you must make an escape, head for Darktown.

“I have heard rumors that there is a network of apostate mages there. Perhaps they can help you get out of Kirkwall.”

“Ser Barris—”

The man shook his head and then rose to his feet, returning the chair to its former location; Barris then strode back to his usual spot, keen eyes focused intently on the hall. Dorian simply frowned at him; it wasn’t that he was upset with the man, but for Barris to speak to him—a mage—this way bode ill. 

Sleep would eventually claim Dorian, though it happened in fits and bursts. Alim had always poured him a cup of soothing tea before bed, but Dorian didn’t think he could blame his poor quality of sleep on a simple lack of tea. No, it was more the fact that even the medical staff weren’t allowed to see him anymore, apparently; Wynne had not shown up all day, and it wasn’t a surprise when Alim hadn’t arrived in the evening either. Nightmares plagued his dreams, and each time he awoke, drenched in sweat, Barris would look at him, silent and with a frown upon his face.

“I’m here,” he would say, and Dorian would nod before laying back down, willing his heart to stop racing.

Two days would pass like this: Dorian and his two keepers on high-alert and all the more miserable for it. Wynne and Alim—or any other mages, for that matter—never came by, and their meals were brought in not by servants but other templars, their expressions stormy and their behavior gruff. For two nights, Dorian tossed and turned, sleeping poorly whenever he managed to doze off.

On that second night, Dorian was startled awake by gunfire.

Jolting upright, Dorian sat up just in time to see templars storming the room. His sword locked against another, Barris was engaged with one of them already, though from the pained look on his face, he’d been wounded. “Barris!” Dorian shouted, even knowing that he wouldn’t have any time to deal with the man’s injuries, wherever they were: three more knights were heading toward him, guns and swords raised.

Automatically, Dorian tossed a barrier up just in time to deflect the bullets fired at him, and in return, he hurled a fireball at the templars, the spell lighting up the room with an orange glow. Heat flared, and templars screamed; the air filled with the smell of burning leather and flesh. A smirk stretched across Dorian’s face as he got to his feet, clutching his nightgown around himself. He still had enough mana in him for another fireball, but the one appeared to be enough—that was until more templars burst through the doorway, swords drawn. One of them raised a hand, and there— _there_.

Dorian’s shield failed him, leaving him vulnerable— _exposed_. Mana draining and emptying out of his body, he shuddered and tried clutching at himself, knowing full well that there was nothing to stop this feeling, this sensation. Gasping for breath, he teetered back toward the bed as cold rolled over him; hand still raised, the templar continued his advance, drawing out what little remained of Dorian’s magic and closing the small space between them.

“Pavus!” Out of his peripheral vision, he could make out a dark figure struggling to reach him. _Barris_ , he thought as different knight crumpled to the ground; someone else quickly took their place though, from what he could make out, and Barris’ advance stopped, though the sounds of struggling continued.

Dorian crumpled to his knees, one hand braced against the bed, and he searched inside of himself, desperate, for his magic. _Empty. Empty!_ he thought, as he saw Barris being clubbed over the head with the butt of a pistol; the man fell to the ground, motionless, and Dorian turned his attention back to the aggressors, eyes wide.

“Lord Dorian Pavus, you have been charged with lyrium theft,” the man before him stated, and while it was difficult to tell whom it was beneath the helm, Dorian knew that voice. “As such, you shall face judgement for your crime.” He had _met_ this man before, it was—

“Ser Mettin?”

He got no response, and instead, Dorian felt that _pull_ again, though he had nothing left to give. He made a choking sound, curling against the bed now as his free hand knotted itself against his chest. Heavy footsteps drew closer, and Dorian was powerless to do anything, his body twitching feebly as he struggled to catch his breath. A rough hand closed in his hair, jerking his head back before a gauntleted fist slammed into his face.

When he woke, Dorian had no idea how much time had passed and no idea where he was.

His head felt like it had been cracked open, something had dried on his face ( _Blood_ , he thought wearily, after a moment), and he was freezing. His body felt distant to him, aching in ways that suggested a beating, and when he tried to move, his first attempt failed miserably: Dorian remained right where he was on the floor.

Seconds ticked by as nothing worked, despite the fact that he was desperately trying to get his fingers or his toes to move. Dorian was starting to wonder if he’d been spelled into paralysis when, finally, he was able to wiggle his big toe. It wasn’t much, but relief filled him as he continued to work on getting his body to cooperate.

By the time, he was able to actually _move_ , Dorian was exhausted, sweat beading his brow. Sleep tugged at his consciousness, but he fought it off, knowing that he needed more information about what was going on around him. Scrounging up what little magic he’d recovered since the templar had drawn it all out of him, Dorian cast a weak healing spell on himself and tried not to think about how this was not, and would never be, his forte. Still, the pain in his body eased enough that Dorian’s thoughts cleared, though he would hardly claim that he was at his peak—or even where he had been before he’d been assaulted.

Carefully sitting up, Dorian took stock of his situation: he was in a small cell with no windows save for a small one in the large metal door directly in front of him. The blue glow of lyrium could be seen from outside said window, and that was the only source of light that he had. He could probably _use_ some lyrium right now, what with how drained of magic he was— _again_ , but if this was a prison for mages, then Dorian was damn sure that those lights would be too far for him to access.

Wherever he was, this cell certainly wasn’t located in the medical bay. During his time at Kirkwall, he had become intimately familiar with all of the nooks and crannies of _his_ part of the Gallows, but this place was nothing like it. Forcing himself to his feet with a groan, Dorian stumbled over to the door and tried to see what he could outside his cell. 

There was, unfortunately, not much to be seen except for other cells, the lights embedded into the ceiling, and templars—lots and lots of templars.

With a huff, Dorian sank back to the floor, curling his arms around his knees. Even if he had enough magical might to force open the door, which he didn’t, there was no way that he, a lone mage, would be able to battle his way out of this hallway, let alone out of whatever enclosure he was located in. And even if he _did_ somehow get out of here alive, then he still had to somehow find his way to Darktown, if he was going to follow Barris’ advice.

_Barris_. Back stiffening at the thought, Dorian wondered what had happened to the man.

His last memory of the templar was of him crumpling to the ground, unresponsive. Dorian bit at his lower lip and let out a shuddering breath; though he wasn’t the most devout Andrastian, he squeezed his eyes shut and sent up a prayer to the Maker that Barris was alright, that his brothers and sisters in arms wouldn’t _kill_ him when he was just doing his bloody job.

“Hurting, aching, pounding, throbbing. The pain is bright—it will scar. A reminder of what is right, of what right costs. It was worth it. He lives. The mage lives.”

Eyes flying open, Dorian jerked his head up quickly enough that his vision swam. There, kneeling in front of him, was a young man—a boy, really—with pale blond hair and an equally pale face. Automatically, he pressed himself back against the door, bare feet scrabbling against the cold, metal floor, and Dorian clamped a hand over his mouth to stop the sound that threatened to come out.

“I am frightening you. I’m sorry,” he said, and the boy shifted back, dipping his head so that the hilariously large hat he wore blocked his face from view. “I came to help. Only to help.”

Still startled by the appearance of someone _inside his cell_ , Dorian looked behind him to make sure that a hole hadn’t suddenly opened up in the door, and when he saw nothing, he looked at the individual again, who had now settled onto his knees, fingers toying with a thread from the hem of his shirt.

“How did you get in here?” Dorian demanded, unable to keep his shock out of his voice. Was it possible for a man to go insane when punched in the face? He had never heard of such a case before, but then again, there was always a first time for everything…

“I go where it hurts. You are hurting. Let me help.”

“Are you a mage then?” What sort of magic was this that would allow a man to pass through walls unnoticed? Dorian had heard of experiments in Minrathous involving lyrium that would give an individual the power to phase through solid objects, but this person right here was rather devoid of any lyrium markings and _surely_ Dorian would have noticed an individual moving into the cell. It was as if this person had just _appeared_ out of thin air.

“I am Cole.”

“Cole?” That was not, unfortunately, an answer to his question. Perhaps this person had traded in his ability to make sense for his ability to walk through walls. Dorian scrubbed at his face with his hands and then sighed. Maybe it was best to not think too hard on the _why_ and just focus on the fact that he did indeed have help right now. “Very well then, Cole. Let us say that I will allow you to help me. What do you plan doing?

“I’ve little magic of my own, and this cell is surrounded by templars.”

“I can kill them and distract them. There are other mages here, too.”

While a part of Dorian understood that killing templars would be part of just about any escape plan, there was something a little off about how simply the boy stated that. Trying not to let his thoughts linger too long on that bit, Dorian turned his attention to the part about _other mages_. “Can you tell me where I am, Cole?”

“Beating, thrumming, coursing. It hurts, it hurts—empty. She feels empty. She gives and gives and gives. She aches, and she wants it to stop. Why won’t it stop? Make it stop! _I can’t, I can’t—_ ”

“Shall I assume that I’ve been contained somewhere inside the Core then?” he ventured, unsure of whether or not he should try comforting Cole in his apparent distress—or _someone’s_ distress. Cullen had spoken of the Core before, like it was a forbidden place—a place of necessary torment for the mages, and it was completely different from the meditation rooms of Minrathous. “So I’m stuck in the most heavily guarded part of the tower, and you’re going to help me escape.

“How do you intend to even get out of here yourself?”

“They will not remember me.”

That statement just caused another frown to form on Dorian’s lips. Cole lifted his head again so that his eyes came back into view, and Dorian wasn’t entirely sure that was an improvement; he shivered despite himself and sniffed, tightening his arms back around himself. “So what should I do now then?” he asked, silently wondering if he could even manage to make an escape in the state that he was in now, even _with_ Cole’s assistance. “Are we leaving now?”

Cole stared up at the ceiling, and Dorian warily followed his gaze, only to find nothing there. The boy remained silent before focusing his eerie eyes back on Dorian. “Wait. It’s not time. Not yet. He doesn’t know. You can’t leave until he knows.”

“Who?”

But then the boy was gone.

There was no cloud of smoke or snap of air or anything at all: Cole simply _vanished_. Dorian stared at the spot where he had been a moment before, looked around the rest of his cell, and then rested his head on his knees with a sigh. He might have been told to wait, but it wasn’t like he could do anything else anyway, stuck in this cell as he was. If nothing else, Dorian would have plenty of time to think about this new and interesting person in his life—one of the many he’d run into since arriving in Kirkwall.

Cole was such an odd fellow, what with his behavior and manner of speech, and the way he moved and looked reminded Dorian of a ghost—oh.

_Oh._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a most awesome voidtakeyou on tumblr drew some fantastic fanart featuring steampunk!Cullen and Barris. If you'd like to take a look (and I hope you will!), head on over [here](http://voidtakeyou.tumblr.com/post/176251763027/theres-this-fic-called-our-gilded-age-that-ive)!! :D Thanks again for sharing this!!

Cullen had returned to the Gallows, only to find the medical bay walled off, a line of angry templars standing outside the entrance. Worry had immediately filled him, especially when he saw them carting off burnt bits of furniture from deeper within, and when the Knight-Captain appeared, Cullen expected the worst.

“The mage was a lyrium thief,” she stated, chin tilted upwards as if daring him to challenge her. Dorian had never actually gotten around to telling Cullen _why_ or _how_ he had come into contact with so much lyrium, but he knew better than to think that the mage would _steal_ the resource. Meredith was clearly using whatever charges she could think up to bring Dorian under her immediate control, if only so she could subject him to whatever treatment she wished.

It was clear that her patience had finally come to an end and that she was going to _force_ the information from Dorian.

“You know that’s a lie,” he muttered, and Meredith simply looked at him, eyebrows lifted. She canted her head slightly, signaling that they move away from the entrance to the medical bay. Now in a quiet corner of the Gallows, she frowned at him, her voice like hard steel.

“Are you challenging my authority, Ser Rutherford?”

“I’m questioning your morality.” Cullen swallowed hard in the face of her scrutiny, but he stood his ground, palms sweating inside of his gauntlets. She scoffed at his words and shook her head, like she couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.

“You were a good man,” she started, sounding almost _disappointed_. “But I didn’t think that you’d fall for some filthy _mage_.” Cullen felt his face heat, even as he tried to stammer out a response; Meredith cut him off though with a simple shake of head. “What were you _thinking_ , allowing him to befriend you?

“Magic grows unfettered in Minrathous. I don’t doubt that he’s cast some sort of infatuation or attraction spell on you. It’s unnatural the way you and Barris stand up for him.” She looked him up and down, as if trying to decide what to do with him, and while he thought, for a moment, that she would have him thrown into a cell somewhere, she did nothing of the sort. 

“Your weapons, Ser Rutherford.” She held out her hands, and Cullen stared at her. When he made no movement to divest himself of them, Meredith repeated her demand. “Your _weapons_.”

Barely containing his shock, Cullen did as he was told, placing his sword and revolver in her waiting hands. Meredith looked them over and then nodded her head. “I’ll be cutting your lyrium rations down to three-quarters for your transgressions—“

“ _Knight-Captain!_ ”

“To _half_.” Cullen clamped his mouth shut and stared at her, incredulous. Meredith frowned at him. “As I said, I’ll be cutting your lyrium rations down to _half_ for your transgressions, and further disciplinary action may be required as I investigate this matter further. “Get out of my sight, Rutherford. Go to the Chantry and pray that He breaks the mage’s hold on you before I do.”

“He didn’t cast an enchantment—”

“You are _dismissed_ , Ser Rutherford. I will speak to you when I’ve time to deal with you.”

Meredith fixed him with one last look before moving away. He watched her go, dumfounded by the exchange, and then felt his entire body sag as she disappeared around a corner and out of view. In a daze, Cullen returned to the barracks and simply sat on the edge of his bed for a solid hour, head in his hands and his thoughts a whirling mess.

Perhaps he could speak to Barris. If nothing else, the two of them were on the same side, and they could discuss what to do next—how to find Dorian, wherever Meredith had spirited him away to. Glad to have finally given himself _some_ sense of direction and purpose, Cullen lurched to his feet and went back out.

Wandering almost aimlessly around the Circle level, no one would tell him where Barris was, though one of the templars eventually took pity on him, revealing the man was being treated for injuries in the very medical bay where he had been keeping watch: he was alive, albeit badly beaten and bruised. It was somewhat of a relief to hear that ( _At least he isn’t dead_, Cullen thought), but Dorian’s whereabouts and well-being were still a mystery, one that continually ate at him.

Disappointed that he would not be able to see Barris, Cullen returned to his room and proceeded to read the Chant, trying to find solace—divine inspiration as to what to do next—in the familiar words. He read the text aloud, reciting them as he had since he was a child, but his thoughts would not settle. Cullen could still remember the look in Dorian’s eyes from the night before: the worry that was his constant companion now, mingling with the fear that he tried so desperately to hide.

The next morning, Cullen took the central elevator up to the Chantry.

There was no denying the power that the Chantry held in Thedas: it ruled over all, as the time of kings and queens, viscounts and merchant princes was long past. The Chantry held Thedas together, remaining strong and steadfast as the Blight continued to claim more and more of the continent. Royal lines would be consumed and tainted—or so the stories went—and cultures would be swallowed whole, disappearing into the sands of time. Long-held practices and traditions were given up in the race to flee into towers, to save lives, and in these Andrastian strongholds, the Chantry chipped away at what remained of other societies and cultures until nothing but half-remembered memories remained.

As a boy, Cullen’s mother had told him about how the elves used to have fantastic cities of their own, their names long forgotten to the winds, and that they used to keep _halla_ —mysterious white deer with beautiful horns; they worshipped a pantheon of their own gods, and they inked their symbols into their skin. Cullen had also heard about the pirates that had sailed the seas, spirit animals who protected whole villages, and cities of the dead from his father, but when he pressed for more information, he was always disappointed to find out that there was no more, that this knowledge had long been lost.

Oh, but if he wanted to know exactly how Andraste had perished? How Maferath had betrayed her? If he wanted to know the names of every single Divine to ever live, then he need only look to the nearest bookshelf to find more information. It was, perhaps, a little aggravating as a child, as his interest in the Chantry would only go so far, but as Cullen grew older, he came to understand that history was written by the victors—that the world he knew and grew up in was a product of the faith of the men and women who had triumphed many millennia ago.

Though he took solace in the Chantry, Cullen knew that there were also many who were now faith _less_ , surrounded by the signs and symbols of a god they did not believe or trust in. Some could trace their roots to cultures long forgotten, while others had simply seen what had been done to the world around them and convinced themselves that no god would let their people, their world sink into such a state.

“There is no Maker,” they would say. “Andraste was a liar.” Cullen could see in their eyes that they truly believed this, and while he still clung to his beliefs, he could understand why they felt this way. Thedas was a barren land below them, overrun by Darkspawn, and here in their towers that touched the sky, it wasn’t hard to imagine the heavens as empty and that the Maker did not exist.

His own family was a pious one, and as a templar, he found his faith strengthened, bolstered by a military background that was heavily steeped in the Chantry. He still said the Chant in times of distress, and when he could, he visited to the chantry when he needed to find peace and clarity—like he did now.

Surrounded by members of the clergy, he felt strangely naked without his usual armor or weapons, and out of the corner of his eye, Cullen could see them whispering about him, the looks they shot his way giving away what their voices would not. He dropped his own gaze, unwilling to allow himself to be swayed by their behavior; Cullen was, after all, just going to the Chantry to pray.

(If he happened to find Grand Cleric Elthina while he was there, Cullen would consider it a most fortuitous meeting.)

When the elevator doors opened, he was immediately greeted by a level of opulence not seen anywhere else in the tower: the floor was all polished marble, and literally everything seemed to have gold laid into it. The metalwork here was fine and delicate—beautiful arches and elegant flourishes; a mural decorated the ceiling, and a plush red carpet created a path to the exit. As a child, he’d been impressed by what he saw, but now he simply saw excess.

Templars stood at attention beside the heavy double doors leading outside, and they moved stiffly to open them as the procession of sisters and brothers exited, a cold rush of wind sweeping into the elevator chamber. Behind them, gears turned as the elevator began its descent again. Despite all the finery around them, there was no hiding the work of machinery, of the lyrium veins creeping all the way to the top of Kirkwall.

Outside, the cathedral towered over everything else on this level. Steel spires touched the sky as white stone grounded it to the metal frame of the tower; flags and banners fluttered in the wind, and its many painted glass windows glittered in the sun. Red carpets ran down the length of steps leading up to the entrance, and even from this distance, Cullen could see individuals making their way up and down, like ants on a man-made mountain.

A chilly gust of wind ripped through the crowd he was walking with, and several of the priesthood gasped as many others tugged their robes more tightly around them. For all that people praised the Chantry level as being the best and most beautiful, Cullen was of the mind that it was just too damn cold to be pleasant. The towers were born out of a necessity to continue _existing_ , but this height was simply _ridiculous_.

People claimed that being so far up allowed them to be closer to the Maker, and there were those who stated that people would collapse in thrall of His power when allowed to come up to the Chantry level. Cullen, however, was fairly sure that people were just fainting because there was simply less oxygen up here. That said, he was not here to criticize the design of the tower; those choices had been made a long time ago.

As he drew closer to the cathedral, he could hear people reciting the Chant over the almost ever present whistle of the wind. Heads bowed, men and women (and even a few children) huddled around each of the statues of Andraste that lined the path. Occasionally, someone would be on their knees or they would be bent all the way to the ground, body shaking with tears as they prayed; Cullen couldn’t help but wonder if they had had their prayers answered or if they were on the verge of losing faith.

It was as he was walking past one of the many statues of Andraste that a woman approached him, and Cullen blinked when he realized that it was Sister Petrice—the lone Chantry sister who had paid a visit to Dorian. It felt like an eternity ago, but Cullen could still remember with startling clarity how this woman had acted toward the mage, how she had expected him to treat Dorian like he was some beast to be tamed.

“Ser Rutherford,” she said, bowing her head in deference to him. Petrice appeared to be the perfect image of respect, but Cullen could think of nothing but poison.

“Sister Petrice.” He returned the favor of dipping his head, albeit far more stiffly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Nothing at all, ser knight. I merely saw a familiar face in the crowd, and I thought I would come and say hello.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you come up to the Chantry. Not losing faith, are we?”

“My duties keep me very busy.”

“But you’ve been given some leave, have you? How fortunate that you could come by then.”

There was… something _off_ about the way that the Chantry sister had said that, and Cullen canted his head, regarding her in a new light. Her expression remained the same, calm and serene, but there was this look in her eyes that seemed to say that she knew _more_ about what had happened in the Gallows than the average sister should.

“I have, yes,” he replied, slowly nodding his head. Cullen moved as if to continue on his way to the cathedral when Petrice stopped him.

“The Grand Cleric is traveling to other parts of the tower today. You needn’t look for her while you’re here.”

Cullen pressed his lips into a thin line and did not answer. Petrice merely arched a brow at him before continuing with the conversation. “It’s a pity that your mage friend never had a chance to meet her,” she said, and Cullen could have sworn that the corners of her lips twitched, as if she was holding back a smile. “If he’d just told me what the problem was, I would have passed the information right to her.”

“I’m sure you would have,” he bit out before marching past her and toward the chantry; Cullen could feel her eyes on him, and it wasn’t until he actually disappeared inside the building that the sensation finally disappeared. Thus, it was with a heavy sigh that he took refuge here.

While the elevator chamber had been very fancy all on its own, the cathedral itself was a testament to the Chantry’s might and wealth. There was not an inch of it that wasn’t covered in gold, precious stone, or fine art, and the delicate lyrium inlays lit up the chantry in an almost ethereal light. Cullen swept his hat off his head, tucking it carefully beneath his arm as he walked further into the cathedral, his gaze swinging upward to take in the murals decorating the ceiling.

All around him, people murmured quietly in prayer, and unlike his journey in the elevator, no one paid him any mind. Grateful for the reprieve, Cullen found a quieter part of the cathedral for himself and took to bended knee in front of a statue of Andraste, this one apparently carved out of marble.

While his prayer certainly consisted of the usual religious platitudes, Cullen found himself asking for wisdom and guidance in regards to Dorian as well—to find him and help him, to know that he was actually _alive_ somewhere.

“He lives,” a voice whispered in his ear, and Cullen jerked his head up, eyes flying open. Looking to his left where the voice had come from, he found nothing but air and an old woman who gave him a funny look. Cullen offered up a strained smile for causing a disturbance before slowly rising to his feet.

Aside from the old woman to his left, there was nobody close by—and certainly no one who could possibly match the voice he had just heard. Cullen didn’t want to question his own sanity, but he had to admit that he was puzzled by what had just happened. Thoughts clouded with questions, he walked deeper into the cathedral, taking in the artistry and architecture until he felt a presence behind him.

Automatically, Cullen reached for his sword, only to remember that he didn’t have it anymore. A hand settled lightly against his shoulder, and Cullen twisted and moved away, putting some distance between himself and… nothing.

There was nobody there.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer blue-screened before I could post this after work tonight and is now taking forever to restart. (Ahahaha so long as it DOES restart, I will be okay. Probably.) Considering how I spent all of yesterday trying to finish this chapter, however, I wasn’t about to be late with my update. That said, allow me to say that it has been really awkward trying to copy and paste this from an email onto here on my phone. Apologies for any wonky formatting. 
> 
> ANYWAY. I am not sure the above matters to anyone, BUT please do check the updated tags. There is no explicit torture written out, and the focus is primarily on what happens afterwards. Not very pleasant either way though. Still! Better to let you all know.

In his cell, Dorian had lost all sense of time.

With no other source of light than the lyrium lines tucked into the ceiling outside his door, he had no idea how long he’d been locked in here. Originally, Dorian tried to mark the passage of time with the meager meals that he received, but with the way his stomach protested, he had a feeling that he wasn’t getting anything on a regular schedule. His sleep was broken and haphazard, and more often than not, Dorian would be jolted awake by cold and pain or the sound of approaching footsteps.

He had come to hate and fear the thud of boots coming down the hall.

Over the course of his stay here in the Core, Dorian had been beaten black and blue, and the gown that he’d worn from the medical bay was now tattered and ripped in multiple places; it barely served the purpose of keeping him decent, never mind keeping him warm. What progress he had made in recovering from his journey to Kirkwall had largely been lost, and Dorian reserved what little of his magic he retained for healing the worst of his injuries, though the effort that it took to do that only left him colder and even more exhausted.

Meredith never came to see him personally, but Dorian knew full well that it was her behind his treatment—that she was the one who sent templars after him at all hours to wear him down.

Though Dorian had always prided himself on being a strong individual, there was still a limit to how much torment he could take, how much physical, mental, and emotional abuse he could handle before he cracked. He had tried desperately, at the beginning, to put up a brave front, but with each visit he made to what he now called the torture room at the end of the hall, Dorian’s resistance fell. Foolish pride kept him from begging for mercy, but now, it was always a litany of _please_ and _no_ and _stop_ that would spill from his lips—not that his pleas ever did any good.

After a particularly cruel session at the hands of four knights, Dorian confessed to stealing the lyrium vials from some templars he’d been traveling with on board the Warden ship. It was, after all, the story that they had been feeding him since his arrival at the Core, and by this point, it was all too easy to say _yes_. Perhaps he had just gotten it all wrong from the very beginning; maybe his memory of the event was incorrect. It was so hard to remember _anything_ when all he could think about was the _pain_ he was in.

Had he imagined seeing the unopened chest on the shore? Dorian could have sworn that he’d found the vials _after_ he’d been shipwrecked, but… The knights were insisting that he’d had them prior to the ship sinking. It was something that he had tried to clarify with himself when he’d been returned to his cell, but the pain was too much; Dorian could come to no clear conclusion.

His information regarding the Elder One was beaten out of him some time later.

Unlike with the lyrium vials, the templars had no story they wanted to hear from him; there was nothing that Dorian could easily and readily agree to. So, he simply gave them what he could while exhausted and in agony. He told them about the Venatori, about the Elder One, and about a Tevinter renaissance. 

The templars did not believe a word that had come out of his mouth, and looking back at it now, Dorian did think that it sounded a little outlandish. A Tevinter magister of old, rising to take over the world? No kind of necromancy had _that_ sort of power. They had all laughed at him before resuming their beating, and as he struggled to protect himself from the repeated blows, Dorian wondered if, perhaps, he’d heard everything wrong or if he’d come up with everything all on his own, thoughts born of a feverish mind.

He could still hear Felix’s voice telling him about what the Venatori visitor had Gereon Alexius, but it was distant, as if the memory had been somehow lost in a fog. The words were muffled and scrambled in his mind, as was his memory of Felix himself. Was Felix just another figment of his imagination? _Surely_ Felix was real. Still, it troubled him, as he was truly starting to question the reliability of his own thoughts.

After all, Dorian had come up with a boy named Cole in his desperation to find a way out of this here—a boy who promised an escape but never delivered. The specter never appeared again after that singular appearance.

Several hours (days?) ago, Dorian had been dragged down the hall for another interrogation session, and while he had nothing left to tell them, his captors continued to demand that he tell them why he was here. No matter how many times he told them about the Elder One, the templars would not relent; in fact, their treatment of him worsened, as they thought that he was mocking them now, hiding his true reasoning behind a pack of lies.

To add to their anger, it would seem that two of their own were protesting his detainment and were asking for his release.

The templars demanded Dorian to lift the curse that he had placed upon the two knights, as it was clearly impossible for templars to sympathize with a mage without an enchantment. Memories of dark skin and blond hair filled his thoughts as he wondered about those two templars, and something within him ached in a way that physical pain could not touch.

When he tried to explain that he couldn’t have enchanted anyone, that he didn’t have the _strength_ to maintain such a spell over an individual, Dorian had been clocked in the head, blacking out with the force of the impact.

Dorian was back in his cell when he jerked back into consciousness with a gasp. Alone for the time being, Dorian belly crawled to and then tucked himself into one corner of his cell, thin arms wrapped tight around his knees as he leaned against the wall. His vision swam, the entire room spinning wildly if he so much as moved a little too quickly, and his head ached terribly. The templars had, predictably, drained his mana prior to throwing him back into his cell, so, for the time being, Dorian had no way to quell the pain that throbbed throughout his whole body.

He simultaneously felt hot and cold. Sweat gathered on his forehead and rolled down his spine, while his teeth chattered uncontrollably. A noticeable tremor wracked his body, and Dorian buried his face in his arms as he tried not to make too much noise as he cried. Even so, choked up sobs still managed to make their way out of his chest as his shoulders shook.

He missed the peace of being unconscious—the complete and utter blankness that would claim him.

Dorian knew that his body was failing him and that he was going to die here: there was no escape and no help to be found. Really, the only question was how long would he hold out: how much more of this could he take?

Exhaustion warred perpetually with the protests of his body. Over and over again, Dorian started to drift off, only to be jerked back into consciousness by how badly he hurt or the cold or the gnawing hunger that was his constant companion now, and when he finally dozed off, the sound of footsteps jerked him into alertness all over again.

Adrenaline poured into his veins, and he started to shake. Heart pounding in his chest, Dorian eyed the door as dread overtook him. There was no way that he could handle another beating right now; this would break him, this would kill him, this would—

The sound of an explosion masked the clank of the door being opened.

Instinctively, Dorian hid his head beneath his arms, though they shook terribly when he did that; he expected blows to fall upon him, expected harsh words and spittle against his skin. When nothing immediately happened to him, he chanced a look from underneath his arms to find a boy with a large hat standing in the doorway. There was no one in armor—no one who looked like an immediate threat to him.

Cole looked the same as he had when Dorian had first imagined him: lank, blond hair and a pale face; Dorian was fairly sure he was even wearing the same brown leathers, though that part was more difficult to recall. The hallucination stepped further inside the cell, and Dorian had to say that he was impressed that his mind bothered to put shadows on things that weren’t there.

Lowering his arms, he shook his head at Cole in disbelief as a bitter smile cracked his lips. After so long, this was surely a sign that Dorian was finally going mad—completely and utterly mad. “Come to torment me again, oh spirit of hope?”

“He is ready. We must go,” the vision said, and feeling delirious, Dorian laughed, his voice breaking.

“Go? And where, pray tell, are we going? A little romp through the park? Oh, now that’s a bloody _fantastic_ idea. Yes, let me just put on my boots, and we’ll head right on over.”

Cole knelt before him, hands outstretched. Dorian drew back instinctively and stared at him, a manic smile still on his lips. “You’re not _real_ ,” he muttered, even as another explosion shook the building. Dorian could hear shouting—distant and moving further away for the time being. “None of this is real. I’m seeing things now. Or maybe I’m just dreaming again—”

“Cole? Where are you?” That voice sounded unfamiliar to Dorian, and another wave of fear rolled over him. Was this person who was approaching real? Was she another hallucination? Had his fevered mind conjured up another companion to torment him with? Dorian tore his gaze away from the boy and looked toward the open door.

Before he could determine what was real and what was not, a woman showed up, dressed neatly in the robes of a Circle mage and her dark hair loose around her shoulders; she had a staff slung over her shoulder. Her eyes took in Cole first before they moved on over to Dorian, and immediately, she paled upon seeing him.

“Maker, look at you—” Cole stepped to the side so that the woman could crowd in next to him, and Dorian shuddered as healing magic washed over him. Where Wynne and Alim had a great deal of finesse when it came to healing, this person used her magic with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. It actually _hurt_ as his body was forced to mend, and Dorian howled as the spells coursed through him. Dimly, he knew that he should be quiet, given that so much noise would attract the guards, but though he bit down on his lower lip hard enough to bleed, Dorian still cried out: he was a panting, quivering mess by the time the mage relented.

(Where _were_ the templars who usually guarded him? The door was flung wide open, and yet, there didn’t seem to be a single soul outside.)

“Sorry, healing’s not my specialty. I’ll have someone else look at you later, but do you think you can walk now?” she asked, concern in her bright, kind eyes. When Dorian did nothing but stare at her, she sat back on her heels, resting her staff on the ground. “Dorian?” When he still said nothing, the woman then looked over at Cole. “Did you tell him _anything_?”

“I said that he is ready and that we needed to go.” Cole fidgeted where he stood, as if suddenly uncomfortable in the skin he wore. “Is that bad, Bethany?”

“No, no, Cole, it isn’t _bad_ , but...” _Bethany_ turned her attention back to Dorian, who endeavored to become one with the wall behind him. Dorian still struggled to believe that either individual before him was real, though the fact that this woman _had_ healed him seemed to suggest she, at least, was here, a person of flesh and blood. The process had _hurt_ enough that he should have been shocked out of a dream if such was the case. Dorian was still, however, unsure about Cole. After all that he had been through, Dorian didn’t think that anyone could blame him for being wary about strangers in his presence, even ones that his mind had crafted.

“Dorian Pavus?” Bethany frowned slightly before offering her hand to him. “My name is Bethany Hawke. I have friends in Darktown who can help you, but I need you to walk. Can you do that?”

“I can leave? Can I leave? No. No. I can’t leave. To hope is to hurt. I can’t hope anymore. The disappointment is too much. I can’t—there is no escape. I can’t. This is the end, this is the end—”

“What?” It took Dorian a moment to realize that Cole was voicing his thoughts aloud and that _he_ hadn’t been the one to say them. He frowned at the boy, who simply stared at him with those eerie eyes of his. Bethany was still looking at him, her hand outstretched, though she made no motion to bridge the gap between them.

“This isn’t the end, Dorian,” she said softly. Bethany briefly looked over her shoulder, and it became evident to Dorian that while she was trying to be as patient as she could with him that she understood that they were on a timeline that he couldn’t possibly try to comprehend right now. Cole shifted on his feet and then peered out the door, hands moving restlessly at his sides.

“Bethany…”

“I know, Cole. I know.” She looked at Dorian, pleading now. “Please, Dorian. We need to go.”

There was more shouting, this time much closer, and the boy disappeared into the hallway without a sound. Bethany pursed her lips and got to her feet. “If you really won’t come, there’s nothing I can do, but—”

“No—no, I’ll… I’ll go with you.” Dorian grasped at her hand, holding onto it like a lifeline. He didn’t trust her or the boy, but if this was his only chance of getting out of the Core, then Dorian knew he had to take this opportunity. And if this was a dream? Then he prayed that he would never wake from it to find himself still broken and beaten in the cell.

With a shuddering exhale, Dorian shifted, bracing himself against the wall as he struggled to his feet. He hissed in pain: as much as the haphazard healing job had helped, Dorian had a feeling that he was suffering from a lot more than what an inexperienced healer could manage. Still, he hoped that the discomfort was a sign that this _was_ actually his reality and that he hadn’t gone completely insane.

“Whatever you did must have really upset the templars,” Bethany muttered, reaching into one of the leather pouches on her belt; she pulled out a tiny potion flask and an even smaller vial of lyrium. Pressing them into his hands, she edged toward the door and peered outside; when she looked back over at Dorian, she wore a grim smile. “We’ve never picked up anyone who looked as bad as you before.

“But then again, we’ve also never fetched someone from the Core before either.”

Dorian had no idea what she was talking about. What sort of people were being picked up? Did Circle mages have some strange duty here in Kirkwall that he didn’t understand? These were questions that required far too much effort on his part to think about right now, so he shut down that line of thought and drank the potion and lyrium, letting the effects settle through his body. With the potions, his mind cleared a little more—enough so that he no longer felt like his skull was filled with cotton.

“Cole…” Dorian pressed a hand to his head as he leaned against the wall for support. “Cole mentioned that someone’s ready.” He thought of warm brown eyes and a comfortable blanket being wrapped around his shoulders. Dorian could hear Cullen’s laughter and the warm cadence of his voice. Digging through his memories, he could have sworn that Cole had once mentioned that someone didn’t know about Dorian being here, that he couldn’t leave until _he_ knew. Surely that meant that Cullen was here for him—

“He meant my brother, Hawke. He’s leading this operation.”

Something heavy settled into the pit of Dorian’s stomach, and it took a second for him to realize that it was disappointment. “Not Cullen?”

Bethany shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Who’s Cullen?”

“No one,” Dorian breathed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to follow up from last week: my PC never did recover, as apparently my hard drive suffered a fatal hardware failure. As such, this chapter was brought to you by my ancient laptop that felt as if it was trying to burn my wrists off the entire time I used it.

At some ungodly hour in the morning, the alarm in the barracks went off, jerking Cullen awake. 

A tinny voice shouted about an attack on the Core over the speaker system, and while he knew he should be rolling out of bed and grabbing his gear, a part of him just wanted to stay right here in bed with his pillow over his head. After all, the Knight-Captain had never brought him back to active duty, and he was still on half-rations when it came to his lyrium. Between the pain and irritation that lyrium withdrawal was causing him, his worry over Dorian was making him lose sleep on top of all of that. All in all, Cullen Rutherford was in foul spirits.

In the end, though, he managed to haul himself out of bed and forced himself into his armor, though Cullen wasn’t entirely sure what he was expected to do, given his lack of sword or pistol. Armed with only a disgruntled look on his face, he joined the mass of templars in the hallway, all of them trying to get out into the open, where a most worrying scene greeted them: the Core was on fire.

That right there forced what remained of his grogginess and irritation out of his body, and Cullen stood, dumbstruck, for a moment before rushing toward the building. As he drew nearer, he saw that there were already mages, kitted out in heavy leathers and cumbersome oxygen tanks and masks, rushing through the main entrance, their hands full of ice magic waiting to be discharged; water was far too precious a commodity to throw at a fire, especially when there were so many mages already present. Aveline, captain of the tower guard, was coordinating efforts to subdue the blaze, directing guards, mages, and templars alike, though from the way Meredith stood at her side, the woman was clearly trying to pull her command away and take over the situation.

Neither woman noticed his presence, and Cullen skirted around to the other side of the building. There were a few small windows toward the top of the structure, and most of them had been blown out; black smoke billowed out of them, though he could not see any flames from here. Nearby, he could see several individuals riding lyrium-powered bikes over to the scene, the carts hooked up to them likely containing tools to help contain the fire.

A group of guards stood around a lyrium spill as he jogged around the scene, the bright blue mineral oozing out from several pipes exposed by a blast that left the innards of the Core open to the outside. Cullen had to swallow hard at the sight of the stuff, tantalizingly close when his body craved _more_ of it, but he forced himself to keep moving, even as his skin tingled with want. It was, at least, a small relief to see that he wasn’t the only one drawn to the lyrium: several other templars milled about, trying their best to pretend that they hadn’t noticed the spill, though their body language said differently.

From this end of the building, people were trickling out of the back door, which had been blown open with something and was hanging askew on its large, heavy hinges. Some individuals escaping were soot-faced templars and others were mages, dizzy and weak from their time within the Core. Someone was shouting about intruders mucking things up inside, and there were a few templars who had shown up with masks and oxygen tanks edging toward the door. One of them grabbed an escaping mage, who had just made it outside, and shoved him back inside as the man protested to no avail.

Cullen did not think he’d ever heard of the Core being on fire before--not just in his lifetime but ever. It made sense that people tended to leave the structure alone, given that destroying the Core essentially meant putting the entirety of the tower at risk, and as insane as people could get, surely no one wanted the entire _tower_ to collapse? That was essentially a death sentence to all who lived here. It just baffled him as to why someone would do this. Cullen had seen attacks on the Gallows and around the Circle; he had even responded to one in the Chantry once. An attack on the Core was just… _ludicrous_.

A lone templar already kitted up to venture inside the Core walked by him, and Cullen called out to him, jogging over to him before he could slip into the building. “What’s going on here?” he asked, even as another group of knights marched past them. Most templars these days seemed to be intent on ignoring Cullen, given his odd stance on one particular mage from Minrathous, but this one answered easily enough.

“Oh, well, they say that there’s been an escape attempt?” the man replied with a shrug of the shoulders before adjusting the set of the large pack he had slung over his shoulders beside his oxygen tank. For someone who was about to put life and limb at risk to help stabilize the Core, he seemed rather nonchalant about the whole thing. “They couldn’t have just left it at one explosion to help get the guy out, could they?

“Let’s just cause enough explosions to set the whole place on fire! A fine idea, that!” The man appeared to look him up and down then, though it was a bit difficult to tell, given that the mask had large, darkened goggles on them. Cullen didn’t really care though, given what the man had just said. “Aren’t you going to join the fun?”

“Who was trying to escape?” For the few weeks that had passed since Dorian had all but vanished into thin air, Cullen had been unable to find any trace of him. Inquiries led nowhere at all, and Cullen had started to wonder if he should just make his way to Darktown and see if anyone had some information on him; his own restricted access to areas in the Circle and his ostracization from the templars hardly helped the situation.

“Some mage from Minrathous, I heard. I don’t know anything else beyond that though.” Another explosion from inside the Core made the man turn and look at the back entrance, and he hurried off, leaving Cullen to stare.

No one had volunteered any information to him so easily since the start of this. Cullen had to wonder how in the world that had even happened, but that didn’t matter now; he had the information, and he was thankful for it. Given what he now knew, though, he could hardly stand here doing nothing, not when that was apparently _Dorian_ trying to escape from the Core.

(Cullen had never known that the place even _had_ a holding area, but then again, he supposed that he shouldn’t have been surprised. Where else were they going to keep mages that acted out while they worked here?)

Heading toward the bikes and carts that he had seen earlier, Cullen tried to keep a low profile, not wanting to draw attention to himself before he could grab a mask and oxygen tank. The individual handing out the equipment gave him an odd look, like she was surprised to see him helping out, but she didn’t protest, instead handing him his things and turning her attention to the next templar.

Strapping the tank onto his back and shoving the mask over his head, he hurried back to the back entrance. It would have been nice if he had access to his weapons, but Cullen would have to make do. With a little luck, he could find something to use before he ran into Dorian. As for what he’d do after he found him…

Well, he’d figure that out along the way.

Heading into the Core, Cullen was immediately thankful for his equipment. There was smoke _everywhere_ , and he had to quickly flick on the light attached to the goggles, the bright blue light cutting through the haze as he moved about. Occasionally, he would run into someone trying to escape, a shade moving through the smoke. There was stone and metal debris scattered about, littering the floor, and as he progressed further into the building, he started to find bodies--mostly of mages.

He stopped to check each one to see if he’d run into Dorian, but Cullen was lucky so far, in some sense of the word. Each individual he’d run into thus far was without a pulse. The mages appeared to be untouched, dead from smoke inhalation, but there were a fair few dead templars down here as well, though _they_ had died from wounds that were still bleeding sluggishly when Cullen found them.

After stripping a sword and pistol off of the first of the templars he’d encountered, Cullen had started to proceed with more caution. This didn’t appear to be the work of one mage alone, and while he _wanted_ to help Dorian be free of this place, he really preferred the idea of getting out of here alive as well.

It felt like he’d been wandering about for an hour when he finally made his way down the steps to the lower level. Here Cullen finally found one of the fires. There was a group of mages here, all of them weaving ice magic to douse it, and he moved past them, as they paid him no mind. Besides, they already had a few templars with them, blades drawn and forming an almost protective circle around the mages; one or two of them nodded their heads at him as he walked past.

Down another flight of spiraling metal stairs, Cullen passed another group of mages, this one escorted by templars. It was clear from their body language that the mages were terrified, though their faces were all covered by masks, and one by one, the templars were shoving them into the empty cells along the hallways as the knights promised death or the Rite of Tranquility to anyone who didn’t immediately get back to work. To his surprise, Cullen didn’t hear a single mage protest.

Through the small glass window located in each door, Cullen could see that a myriad of pipes ran along the walls of each cell, all of them likely filled with the lyrium lifeblood of Kirkwall. Mages had their hands pressed to a metal podium in the center of each room, and while most had their backs turned to the window, Cullen could only assume that _that_ was the device used to channel their magic. While he didn’t understand the exact mechanics of it, Cullen knew that the Core required mages to use magical force to quite literally _move_ the lyrium through the pipes. Mages were the heart of the tower, keeping a steady beat to sustain the tower and power it.

He pitied the mages brought in to power the Core _now_ of all times, but he also understood the necessity of it.

Past the hall of cells, the smoke grew heavier, and there was more debris on the ground; an explosion likely had happened nearby. Alone now, Cullen couldn’t help but feel that he was being followed as he wandered, and on more than one occasion, he stopped in his tracks to glance over his shoulder. Finding nothing but smoke, he continued on his way, only to see a woman in Circle robes standing in front of him, a man dressed in templar leathers leaning heavily against her.

Both of their faces were obscured by masks, but before he had a chance to say anything, a knife flew at him from his left. It struck his shoulder, and with a shout of pain, Cullen pulled out his sword as another woman hurtled toward him, two daggers in her hands. Dark hair flying all around her, he saw that she, too, had a mask on, and as he blocked her blow with his sword, Cullen wondered if these were the intruders that he had heard about.

The aggressor didn’t leave him much time to think though, as she spun around, trying to get at his back. Cullen was forced to move along with her, twisting to make sure that she was never quite able to sink her dagger into his flesh. A moment later, she bounded away before beginning her assault anew.

Her daggers glimmered in what little light there was in the hallway, and their blades met with a clash. Though Cullen couldn’t be sure of it, he felt sure that he heard the woman _laugh_ , of all things, while they traded blows, and when he finally managed to push her way, Cullen swiped at her only to be met with a blast of fire from the mage behind her.

He ducked to avoid the spell, only for the rogue to slip around to his side, and Cullen could hear one of her daggers dragging against the breastplate. The goggles on his mask were severely hampering his peripheral vision, and with a snarl, he pulled it off his face. He knew that he wouldn’t last long without clean air here, but if he couldn’t see, Cullen was fairly sure he was going to die even sooner than that.

(If he ever got out of here alive, Cullen was going to bring this up to the quartermaster. They needed some bloody detachable goggles.)

“Well, aren’t _you_ a handsome one?” the woman said before she was diving in again; this time, Cullen was able to parry the blow and make a swipe at her feet. She managed to avoid falling over, but she had to roll to recover--a move that was covered by the mage. Or, at least, that had been the plan when the injured templar shouted, his voice muffled.

“Wait!”

Weapons still raised, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him. The mage and rogue regrouped around him, while Cullen awkwardly tried to take a few breaths of clean air from the mask without having to put it back on. “Wait,” the other man said again. “That’s him. That’s Cullen.”

The mage stared at him, and Cullen could practically see her incredulous look from behind the goggles she wore. “That’s the person you were asking about?”

“That’s him.” The man struggled with the mask for a moment, and when it was removed, Cullen stared, mouth agape.

“Dorian?”

Covered in blood and grime, he was sporting an overgrown beard as well as two black eyes and a split lip, but that was Dorian Pavus standing before him. Dry lips quirked into a small smile, and Dorian nodded his head. Cullen stepped forward without even thinking about it, though the rogue stopped him from getting too close.

“And what do you intend to do with our friend here?” she asked, a single dagger pointed at him. With a roll of the eyes, Cullen sheathed his sword and shoved his mask back on his face.

“I’m getting him out of here, of course.”

“He’s a friend, Isabela,” Dorian said as he, too, put his mask back on before dissolving into a fit of coughing. The mage seemed to regard him with concern before turning back to look at Cullen and then whoever this Isabela person was.

“It’d be easier if Cullen took him out of here. They could pass as two templars trying to escape,” she said, and Isabela shrugged her shoulders, sheathing her daggers with one fluid movement.

“It’s up to you, Dorian.” When he nodded his head, Isabela stepped to the side, and Cullen took her place before Dorian, looping one of his arms around his shoulders; his other arm circled around Dorian’s waist. Before he could say anything, Isabela moved toward him again, pulling her dagger out of Cullen’s shoulder, and the mage quickly stepped in to heal the wound before he could do more than shout in protest.

“All better,” the mage said, and Cullen just had to stare at the two women for a moment before he turned his attention back to Dorian.

“Ready?” Cullen asked, even as Isabela faded into the smoke, off to do Maker knows what, and he set off at a slow but steady pace. The mage stayed at their side, scouting a little further ahead, and at a few points, Cullen could have sworn he saw her waving at shadows, figures obscured by smoke. He didn’t know if it was Isabela keeping an eye on them or someone else entirely, but their journey back to the exit of the Core was surprisingly peaceful. The templars left them alone because of the outfits he and Dorian wore, and no mages paid them any heed because of the one who traveled with them.

Given how much Dorian struggled with just staying upright, though, it was probably a good thing that nothing hampered their journey. It was already taking considerably longer than anticipated, and on multiple occasions, Cullen wondered if he should just _carry_ Dorian the remainder of the way. Before he could voice the question, though, the exit finally appeared before them.

Dawn greeted them as they stepped out of the Core, and when Cullen made as if to remove his mask, the mage shook her head at him. “Not here,” she hissed, quickly and quietly leading them away from building. Mages, templars, and guards all milled about, and there were enough people in the area that no one paid the three individuals any mind as they slipped away.

The mage led them further and further away from the center of the Gallows, and by the time they stopped, Cullen could see the sprawl of the tower below them--a mess of gears, metal, and pulsing lyrium; all that separated them from a very long fall was a tall, metal fence.

At this point, the mage removed her mask, and both men followed suit. “We can’t stay here,” Cullen muttered, continuously casting looks in the direction that they had just come from. Dorian had taken to sitting against the fence, legs drawn up to his chest and his forehead against his knees. Cullen wanted to speak to him, to ask him how he was doing, but it was probably for the best to let him rest, as he didn’t know what else lay before them.

“We wait,” the mage said. “The others will be here shortly.”

As she said, several more individuals appeared soon after. First came Isabela who gave him a saucy wink, and after that, a pale boy with a large hat appeared, almost as if out of thin air; last came a bubbly elven mage.

“Just one more…”

Of course, that was when a templar showed up, and Cullen couldn’t help but step between him and the odd party gathering behind him. His name would be all but tarnished at this point, but perhaps he could still pretend that they were just trying to rescue another brother; Cullen just prayed that this man didn’t know whom Dorian was.

In his agitation, he didn’t seem to notice that no one else appeared perturbed by the tall man with a beard. “Ah, so we meet again!” the templar said, and Cullen instantly recognized the voice as belonging to the man he had talked to right before he slipped inside the Core.

“Looks like you went for a fun little jaunt. Brought our mage out with you as well. Thanks for your help!” The man nodded his head as if this was all part of the plan before walking right past Cullen and kneeling before Dorian.

“The hard part’s over!” he exclaimed when Dorian lifted his head. “Now we just have to get you to Darktown. We only have to climb down about a thousand ladders and avoid all the templars who will no doubt be looking for you, but that’s all right.

“I’m Hawke. I think Bethany told you about me?” After Dorian nodded his head, Hawke stood back up and looked at Cullen. “Care to tag along? I’m quite sure that your Knight-Captain will want your head for helping us out, but I assure you that we like your head right where it is. Promise.”

Cullen stared. What in blazes was going on here?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing special to say right this second, but... Hey! Thanks for reading and coming along for this ride. :) An extra big thank you to those of you who kudos and comment as well. Getting those notifications in my inbox make my day, haha. ♥♥♥

Though most people knew just how far up the towers went, an individual typically didn’t have the time or view to really appreciate the true _distance_ between the base of the tower and where they stood. There were few places where the ground could be seen except for at a distance, and it was near impossible to look straight down at even the lower levels, what with the tall fences or walls along the edges of each level.

Kirkwall was, after all, designed in such a way to keep its inhabitants safe from falling to their deaths.

Cullen now knew, however, that there were some exceptions to this rule, and while he’d never been afraid of heights or of falling, he was starting to think that this current journey along the _outside_ of the tower was changing his perspective on that. After all, he’d never had to walk across thin metal planks barely wide enough for him to stand on or deal with winds strong enough to practically sweep him off his feet, and Cullen had certainly never had to climb down rickety ladders that would lead to a very quick, one-way trip to the ground if he lost his grip or footing.

The lack of lyrium didn’t help his focus either, and given that he was fast approaching the 24 hour mark without a single drop of the stuff, Cullen wasn’t at the top of his game either.

The rest of his party, however, did not seem to mind the death-defying trek downwards. They had names now, the lot of them, and while the introductions were brief, Cullen did exchange conversation with them when he could, though the opportunities had been few and far in between thus far. The near constant whistling of the wind meant that chatter while they moved through Kirkwall’s metal skeleton was nearly impossible as well, though the individuals he was traveling with seemed to have developed some sort of system of hand signals to convey ideas to each other as they moved.

Though, _moved_ was perhaps not quite accurate for some of these people.

Isabela was practically swinging down the ladders, moving with all of the grace and dexterity of a woman born to leap through the proverbial branches of this metal jungle, while Merrill seemed content to follow her lead, though with less actual swinging. Cullen wonder if her being barefoot helped her find better footing on the metal somehow.

Cole didn’t seem to travel so much as disappear and then reappear, and Cullen was starting to wonder if he’d end up toppling to his death because the boy surprised him at the wrong place and wrong time. The Hawke siblings were, thankfully, a bit more sedate, though he suspected that if they weren’t taking turns helping Dorian out that they’d be moving a bit faster as well.

And Dorian…

Maker above, Cullen’s heart went out to the man. In the daylight, he could see what a mess the templars had made of him, and in some ways, Cullen couldn’t help but wonder if Dorian was in a worse state than he had been when he’d first arrived at Kirkwall. He was pale and sickly again, and from the way the leathers hung off his frame, Cullen didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d lost all of the weight that he’d gained while in the Gallows.

Worst of all, however, was the fact that the spark that had always been in Dorian’s eyes appeared to be gone--extinguished.

Cullen desperately wanted to speak to him, but whenever either he or Hawke approached Dorian, there was this visible _shudder_ that ran through him. The mage would swallow hard, offer up a pained smile, and then accept their assistance, though it seemed to only be his weak state that stopped him from simply bolting. After that happened the first time, Cullen stayed away from Dorian, not wanting to cause him further trauma.

“I think it’s the uniforms,” Hawke said, several minutes after he let Bethany take over supporting Dorian. Dorian swayed for a moment before she got her hand around his waist, and they sidestepped a little before the two of them regained their footing. The group had ended up in a larger landing area, a simple railing all that stood between them and thin air, and given how exhausted Dorian looked and how low the sun was sinking, it was unanimously decided that they would stop here for the night.

“I’m not surprised,” Cullen replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can only imagine what had been done to him in the Core.” Whatever thoughts had come across in his head, he had a feeling that it was nothing compared to what Dorian had actually gone through. Sometimes, the imagination just couldn’t match the reality.

He looked over at Hawke, who had taken a seat on the ground as far as was physically possible from Dorian. “Do you think we should get rid of them?”

“I don’t mean to be cruel, but I think it best that we keep the uniform on until after we get to Darktown.” Hawke pat the spot beside him, encouraging Cullen to take a seat. “I’m sure you’re a perfectly handsome man beneath that get-up, but I’m not sure any of us want to see you running around naked. Not right now at least.

“We’ve spare equipment and food but not clothes. Something to consider for next time, I suppose.”

“Next time?” Cullen raised an eyebrow at Hawke, but the man merely waved it off, as if he’d said nothing of import. With a slight frown, Cullen sat down beside Hawke, who then proceeded to stretch his legs out in front of him.

“You never did tell me what you all were doing in the Core.” Cullen frowned at Hawked, eyes narrowed. “You’re not even a real templar, are you?”

“No, I’m not. Was it something I said?”

“Actually, yes…” Now that Cullen had the time and space to think about it, it did seem rather strange (albeit fortuitous) that a fellow templar decided to finally stop being evasive and just _tell_ him what was going on. It felt like it had been weeks since anyone from the Order had told him anything of use, and most of them tended to avoid him like a leper. “You talked to me.”

“Oh, my. Were you shunned by the templars? Maker above, that must have been terrible.” There was far too much amusement in Hawke’s eyes to make Cullen think that he was being serious, but he managed a wry smile of his own and shrugged his shoulders. Though he kept his eyes on Dorian, he could still feel Hawke looking at him, judging him.

“Will you be alright without lyrium?” the man finally asked, and Cullen’s throat worked.

“It’s as you said: Stannard would have had my head. I’d rather take my chances with the lyrium withdrawal.”

“Ah, so a long, slow death over a swift one. I didn’t take you for a masochist.”

Cullen’s temper flared at that, and he snapped his head over to glare at Hawke, who continued to look at him levelly, not fazed in the least. Almost immediately, the anger bled out of him, and Cullen sighed, hanging his head. Today had been a stressful day, and now he was without lyrium--possibly forever. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Hawke.”

“No, no, I understand. I shouldn’t have poked fun.” The man crossed his legs at his booted ankles and leaned back on his hands. Across the landing, Bethany was healing Dorian again, though from the look on his face, it was difficult to tell whether or not it was helping any. Cullen couldn’t hear what they were talking about thanks to the wind, but he wanted to be over there, helping and comforting.

“There’s not much we can do for you here, but once we get to Darktown, we might be able to get you some lyrium.” Hawke wasn’t looking at him when he said it, but Cullen canted his head to look at him anyway. “If you want to keep taking it, that is.”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re helping us--Dorian. Why you’re helping Dorian.” The thought of getting lyrium again was making his skin itch a little, and Cullen needed the conversation to keep his mind off of it, that driving desire to have the blue stuff. Hawke glanced over at him for a moment and then tilted his chin in the direction of Bethany.

“We tried to keep her safe--my mother and I. The templars eventually found her, but I wasn’t just about to lay down and let them keep her forever.”

“Then this was all to rescue your sister?”

Hawke laughed at that and shook his head. “Oh, no. Bethany’s been out of there for a little under two years now,” he said, brushing off Cullen’s question with a wave of the hand. “No, this is all part of our little… _operation_.

“After we got Bethany back, she started to talk about how many other mages are just so unhappy being in the Circle, so it made sense to start freeing more of them.”

The idea was ludicrous, but being a templar, Cullen had _heard_ of some sort of underground network used to get mages out of the Circle. He hadn’t realized that it was so _organized_ though. These individuals actually had camps along the exterior and edges of the tower--places that had supplies and food. “So the attack on the Core was all orchestrated to get Dorian out?”

“It was. He took a bit more effort than the usual mage, but Cole assured me that he’d be well worth the trouble.” Though he was out of earshot, the boy lifted his head and looked at them from beneath his large hat, but he didn’t come any closer from where he was seated with Merrill. Hawke glanced over at Cullen, smirking. “I didn’t think we’d snag a templar in the deal though. Two for one sale?”

Cullen shrugged and smiled half-heartedly. At the moment, he wasn’t particularly concerned about his own safety, but Cullen _was_ glad that Dorian had managed to get out of the Core; that he was traveling with him away from the Circle was simply a bonus.

“So what’s the price?” he asked, knowing that there had to be one. No one simply risked their neck for someone else for nothing.

“The price? Well, a bit of coin wouldn’t hurt, or if you wanted to assist with future efforts, we certainly won’t turn you away.” Hawked shrugged his shoulders. “Bethany is obviously still helping us, and Merrill started to come with us a few months ago as well.”

Across the landing from them, Bethany was helping Dorian settle down in a bedroll--something she had apparently pulled out of the supplies stashed here. When he had bedded down, Bethany moved away to give him some peace and quiet, but all Cullen could think about was how lonely Dorian looked: he wanted to be there with him.

“But we mostly do this because it’s right, and I’m certainly not going to say no to making Meredith’s life more difficult.”

“Does Orsino know about you all?” Cullen drew his eyes away from the sleeping mage to Hawke.

“He knows of Cole, but no, Orsino doesn’t about the finer details of what we do. Considering how smart he is though, he’s probably figured out that whenever an accident happens in the Circle that at least one of his mages will disappear.”

“Those were all _you_?” Cullen’s expression changed into one of minor irritation now, and Hawke simply laughed before clapping him on the shoulder.

“We do like giving you templars a surprise, but yes, those were all us. Did you enjoy the flaming lamp posts about five months ago?”

Cullen had to admit that seeing the things lit up like candles was interesting, even if a bit frightening: they looked a bit possessed, actually. “I don’t think I could forget them,” he confessed. “Some of the mages were saying that they cast more light than the lyrium and that we should just leave them like that.”

“A pity that they weren’t more sustainable then.”

Cullen felt as if he should be more angry about all of this--after all, these individuals had all served to make his life considerably more complicated and had put people in danger; actually, these people likely had _blood_ on their hands, too. The attack on the Core was obviously ridiculous, and yet, all he felt was a certain level of thankfulness. Dorian was free, and Cullen… 

Well, he’d figure out how to break his lyrium leash. If nothing else, Cullen was sure that he wasn’t going back. Not now, after all that had happened.

“What happens when we get to Darktown?” he asked, frowning a little when he saw Dorian roll to his side, showing the lot of them his back. 

“That’s up to you. I imagine that you’ll stick around for a bit to see if we can help you with that little lyrium problem of yours, but you’re free to do whatever you please. Roll around in the dirt. Become a baker. Get your nose pierced. Dive into the sea--though, I really don’t recommend that last one.

“Perhaps you could ask that mage friend of yours what he wants to do. You seem to enjoy his company well enough.” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Something about the way that Hawke was looking at him now made him a little uncomfortable--like he knew entirely too much.

“‘Oh, hello, look, it’s a burning building! Let me just jump right in so that I can find this mage even though I have no idea where he is, I don’t have any weapons, and most of my fellow templars hate me!’” Hawke grinned and clapped him on his shoulder. “He told Bethany that he was expecting you as well.”

Cullen remembered that exchange in the smoky hallway--how Dorian had saved him from a blade in his side and a fireball in his face. After they had cleared the Core and slipped down their first series of ladders to get away from the Circle, he’d actually started to feel a little guilty about not trying harder to find Dorian, especially when Dorian had been… expecting him.

_He was waiting for me to save him._ His lips curled into a slight frown as guilt continued to well up within his chest. Cullen… wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that. If Dorian had been waiting for him to come to his rescue, he had failed miserably in his duty. Would Dorian even want to speak to him in that case? Hawke was still smiling at him, and Cullen managed a humorless chuckle.

“I’ll ask him.”

“Good! Though, don’t say or ask anything too rash until we’ve reached some place with more solid footing.” Hawke grinned, jabbed him lightly in the ribs, and got to his feet. “I’d hate for either of you to fall to your deaths because of an unexpected declaration.

“Now then, let’s see about dinner, shall we?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, my favorite part about AUs is world building. It is so fun. D: Anyway, thanks again for reading!

While he did experience a feeling of profound relief at getting to leave the Core and the Circle, the joy was short-lived. It didn’t take Dorian long to realize that the demons still hunted him, even after he was gone from that cell. The shadows made him jump, and the wind carried voices that made him jerk and twitch. The sight of the two templars-- _of Cullen and Hawke_ \--made it difficult for him to breathe, and the way he clung to Bethany probably bordered on unhealthy.

That first night away from the Core, Dorian woke to Merrill hovering nearby, her face a mask of worry.

Cold sweat drenched his clothes, and he struggled to catch his breath, even as his nightmare ebbed from his memory and left him feeling drained and empty. The elf didn’t draw closer, as if she was worried that her presence would upset him more, and Dorian wasn’t sure whether or not it would. He smiled at her, wan and exhausted, before folding his legs toward his chest and resting his forehead against his knees.

It wasn’t until the thudding of his heart eased that Dorian tried to lay back down, but sleep would not find him again that night. He wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

Dawn found him feeling no better, and the shot of healing magic that Bethany hit him with did little to mend his spirit. More than once Dorian found Cullen staring at him, brow creased in worry, but he couldn’t meet the man’s gaze. He knew that Cullen was a friend and ally, but looking at him right now was… difficult. It hurt.

He couldn’t finish the scone that had been given to him by Cole, and when it was time to move, Dorian lurched to his feet, wondering what the point of this whole exercise was.

Hawke didn’t try to help him today, letting Bethany and Merrill take turns helping him maneuver his way through the jungle of metal, and both individuals clad in their templar armor ranged ahead as Isabela and Cole took up the rear. It was, objectively speaking, a beautiful day, and the views from the exterior of the tower were amazing, if only Dorian had the heart to enjoy them.

Three days passed like this as they continued to descend the tower, and for three nights, Dorian found no rest.

His steps were stumbling, and half the time, he felt as if he was going to fall asleep while standing. The group had to make more than a few impromptu stops so that he could rest, lest he simply keel over or fall off the tower; there had been a distressing number of times where he almost _had_ had a fatal accident. Dorian had heard Cullen offer to carry him over the whistling of the wind, but whenever he was presented with the idea by Hawke, Dorian refused. Besides, it wasn’t as if Cullen could carry him down ladders, of which there were still plenty.

At the end of the fifth day, Bethany whispered in his ear: “We’re almost at Lowtown.”

She wore a smile on her face, but to Dorian, this meant nothing. Was their destination not Darktown? How long would it take them to get there, if so much time had passed simply so that they could get to this Lowtown place? And if they were approaching another level in the tower, didn’t that mean that templars would become a problem all over again?

Indeed, as they had neared Lowtown, a lone templar found them, but Isabela was quick to dispatch him, teeth white against her dark skin as she grinned in victory.

Cole disappeared for a brief period of time in that mysterious way that he did, and when he returned, he reported that there was a heavy templar presence in the area and that Meredith herself was stalking the streets, apparently livid about the loss of her Minrathous mage. The boy then went on to tell Cullen that his family was safe and asked the man if he wanted him to deliver a note to them.

Cullen had, of course, agreed.

When they retired for the evening, Dorian remained awake in his bedroll, watching Cullen through barely open eyes as the man wrote a letter to his family. There was a pinch in the man’s brow these days, and while a look of worry almost always filled his gaze when he looked at Dorian, Cullen seemed less patient than he had in the Gallows. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, and he looked a little paler than Dorian remembered, despite the time that they were spending exposed to the elements.

As they passed by the Alienage a few days later, Merrill and Isabela took their leave, with the former saying that she would come by and visit them in Darktown later. This level, however, was apparently _her_ home, and she had business to attend to. Isabela made no such promises but did say that she would come if they ever had any good liquor to offer her. Dorian could barely rouse the energy within himself to bid them farewell, but Merrill waved at him all the same, her smile soft and just a little worried; Isabela blew him a kiss instead.

On the ninth day, it rained, chilling the lot of them to the bone, but to Dorian’s relief, it was on that day that they reached Darktown.

This low in the tower, the ground seemed so much closer. They could all see the deep cracks in the earth and the broken remains of nature and civilization. Shadows moved in the distance, a blurry haze in the rain, and Dorian could only assume that they were Darkspawn. After all, nothing else existed in that barren wasteland, and looking at it now, he had to wonder if it had not just been his own skill that got him to Kirkwall but divine providence.

Though, this entire journey had been nothing but bad luck for Dorian from the start. Divine bad luck, then?

A small hatch in the metal exterior of the tower was their entrance into Darktown, and Cole and Hawke slipped inside first to scope out the area before anyone else entered. Cullen was pressed against Dorian’s side as they huddled against the outer wall with Bethany, and he was so damn tired and cold that he did the only natural thing that came to mind: Dorian nestled against the man, desperately seeking warmth.

He felt Cullen stiffen against him, but a moment later, he relaxed. “We’re almost there,” Cullen said, and at that moment, Dorian realized that those were the first words that they’d shared since the first day of their journey.

“I know,” he said in reply, and Dorian shut his eyes against the cold and rain.

When Hawke returned, Cole was no longer with him. Still, he was smiling, which Dorian could only assume was a good thing. They were all invited to come into the hatch, and the interior was blessedly warm and dry, though, as the name implied, it was dark.

Compared to all of the other levels, Darktown was completely enclosed by metal. There was no sky to be seen here, and the only lights present were the lyrium lamps that dotted the streets and lit the windows of what passed for homes here. A few fires dotted the landscape, and smoke could be seen drifting slowly but surely upwards. Low-built buildings completely covered the ground of this level with an odd tower spiking up here and there, though nothing came close to even touching the darkness that seemed to descend from wherever the actual ceiling was.

Really, the only thing that came down from up above was the central elevator, which cut a straight and clear path right through the center of the level.

“Welcome to Darktown! Watch your hands, feet, and pockets,” Hawke exclaimed cheerfully as he gestured toward the level with one broad sweep of the arm. “Take a deep breath--but not to deep because the air quality’s a bit questionable--because we’re free of the templars here.” Before either Cullen or Dorian could make a comment about that, Hawke continued, “As much as people may dislike each other down here, they hate templars even more.”

Cullen pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinched, like he was staving off a headache. “And how is that supposed to help me?”

“Oh, you’re an ex-templar now. That’s entirely different.” 

“And they’ll know this how?”

“Because you’re with me, obviously, but I assure you that no templars will bother to hunt for you here--”

“I know. It’s a lost cause,” Cullen muttered under his breath, and Hawke grinned, slapping the man against the shoulder. Absently, Dorian wondered how many apostates Cullen had tried to chase down here and how many mages were saved because of this haven.

“Let’s go and get you lot checked out then.”

Descending into the heart of Darktown was considerably easier than making their way down the tower, but by the time Bethany helped him past a door and into a surprisingly large area filled with cots and chairs, Dorian was on the verge of passing out. She kept murmuring words of encouragement, and when she helped settle him on the edge of a cot, he buried his face in his hands as the world swam before his eyes.

“Anders?” Hawke called, his voice sounding a little further away, as if he was walking past Dorian. 

“Where in the world have you been, Hawke? I’ve been worried sick about you.” That was a new voice, one that caused Dorian to warily lift his head. Following the sound of the two men, he glanced over his shoulder to find Hawke speaking happily to a blond man who looked quite harried.

“Our guest of honor wasn’t feeling well, so we couldn’t exactly return in great haste.”

With a soft sigh, the man drew nearer, though he stopped briefly when he saw Cullen standing a short distance away. What had been a concerned expression hardened into one of distrust, and if it weren’t for Bethany coming over to place a bracing hand atop of the man’s arm, Dorian had a feeling that something _very bad_ would have happened.

“That’s Cullen,” she said quickly. “He helped us get Dorian out of the Core and has left the templars.”

There was still a noticeable air of distrust to the way that the man held himself, but he nodded his head stiffly before turning his attention to Dorian. Kneeling in front of him, the man lowered himself to Dorian’s level. “I’m Anders,” he said quietly, the worry back on his face. “Will you allow me to take a look at you and heal you?”

“Bethany’s already--”

“Please, Dorian. Let him work with you. He’s a far more skilled healer than I,” Bethany quickly interjected. She, too, came to kneel before Dorian, placing a soothing hand on his shoulder. With her reassurance, he nodded his head, stripped out of the outer layers of the leathers he wore, and then carefully laid back in the cot. Hawke ushered Cullen out, who left without a fuss, even though he seemed reluctant to do so, what with the way he kept shooting backward glances at Dorian.

What followed next was reminiscent of when he had been under the care of Wynne and Alim, and while Dorian had almost gotten _used_ to the ever-present ache in his body, he was surprised to feel it ebbing under Ander’s careful care. The man worked quietly and diligently, speaking to Dorian only when he noticed a flicker of pain across his face or to warn him about how something might sting a little.

All the while, Bethany remained seated at his side, her hands folded gently around one of his own.

At some point, Dorian fell asleep, and when he woke next, there was no one immediately beside him. Bethany, the person who had been at his side the entire time since they left the Core was gone; she was _gone_. Panic quickly flooded through him, and sitting up, the first thing out of his mouth was, “Bethany!”

Bethany did not appear, and instead, he heard a soft moan to his left: Cullen sat up in the cot he’d been resting in and, looking a little careworn, turned his attention to Dorian. The man summoned an exhausted smile and stood, coming closer and taking a seat where Bethany had been earlier.

The panic started to ebb.

Dorian noticed that Cullen had changed out of the templar armor and was now dressed in a set of worn, grey leathers that seemed just a little too big for him; his weapons were nowhere to be found. “Bethany and Hawke went to take care of some business around Darktown, and Anders is making a house call. They’ll be back soon.” A pause and another brief smile. “How are you feeling?” Cullen asked, and Dorian simply shrugged his shoulders.

His body felt better, but the heaviness in his thoughts remained. Cullen didn’t push him to explain further, and for a short while, they simply sat in silence, both of them apparently lost in their own thoughts. In the end, it would still be Cullen who would break the silence.

“Are you hungry? I can try to find you something to eat, or if you’d rather sleep a little longer, you can do that as well.” Cullen shifted as if to move and leave his side, and Dorian’s hand shot out like a bolt, latching onto his wrist.

“Don’t leave me.” His throat worked, and for a moment, he felt a burst of shame rush through him, a feeling that he push aside. Dorian’s need for company was stronger than his embarrassment, and his hold on Cullen’s wrist didn’t relax. “Please.”

A warm, calloused hand settled on his own, and Cullen’s gentle voice enveloped him like a blanket. “Alright. I’ll stay.”

A faint smile pulled at the man’s lips, and Dorian had to wonder if it was a change in lighting or his own eyes playing tricks on him: Cullen’s face looked a little less pinched than before. Had Anders done something for his lyrium withdrawal then? Or was Cullen simply putting on a brave face for his sake? He seemed like the type to do that.

Whatever the reason, Dorian was too drained to breach the topic right now, and he nodded his head dumbly in approval. Cullen seemed to be perfectly happy to accept that, and after a moment, he very carefully laced their fingers together. The gesture was not unwelcome, Dorian decided, especially when he felt the little squeeze that Cullen gave him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting _might_ be wonky the next two weeks as I'll be going to visit family at the end of this week, but I intend to bring the ancient laptop with me to continue writing and posting. So! Hopefully things will still stay on my unofficial posting schedule. :B
> 
> Thanks for reading. ♥

It had been a little under a month since they’d descended from the Circle and taken up residence in Darktown. The little hut that Hawke had procured for them had space enough for two cots, a small table, a few rickety chairs, and, very importantly, a locking door. Thin curtains hung in front of the lone window at the front of the home, and someone (Cullen suspected Hawke) had tried to decorate the place with lots of tiny mabari figurines and paintings of questionable quality. A small wooden tub and a tiny wood-fire stove had also somehow been shoved into the space, but there was no running water inside, which meant frequent trips to the nearby waterline.

All in all, this place was fairly decent for Darktown, though Cullen was of the mind that he was willing to accept just about anything to have both himself and Dorian away from the Circle.

When Dorian had been stuck healing in the Gallows, he was far worse off physically, but Dorian’s thoughts and spirit were intact. Now, coming from the Core, the bodily injuries were easier to shrug off: after all, Dorian hadn’t been poisoning himself with lyrium for Maker knew how long just to survive. What he struggled with now was the healing of his heart.

Cullen could see it in the way the man would simply lay in bed for hours on end, and when he did manage to crawl out of his small cot, he’d wouldn’t go outside, content to sit by the window and stare at the world from inside instead. His beard was overgrown, and his hair was unruly--a dull and tangled mess that he suspected the Dorian of old wouldn’t have approved of.

Anders had let Dorian go after about a week of staying at his clinic, but he had continued to insist on daily visits to their new home until about a week and a half ago. Even now, he would still come by every few days to make sure that Dorian was still progressing and healing.

“He’s stable, physically, but… I worry for him still,” the healer had said, drawing Cullen aside after one of his usual visits. Anders still wasn’t too fond of him, but Cullen could understand that his templar background made it difficult for them to be… companionable. Still, they found common ground on the topic of Dorian, and they would be civil to each other for his sake. “I know you have your own monsters to battle, but watch over him.”

Cullen understood, and he made sure that Dorian was never alone.

Bethany came by frequently, almost daily, and would stay as long as she could. When she was there, Dorian seemed to brighten slightly. With a pale face and dark circles under his eyes, he never seemed to truly shake off the cloud that hung over him, but he at least looked a little more alive when she visited. A ghost of a smile would appear on his lips, and the look in his eyes seemed a little less dull. She would come and sit next to him on the cot and talk about everything and nothing at all as he listened quietly, only interjecting on occasion.

Hawke came on occasion to see the two of them and to drop off bags of coin and Cullen’s special tea blend, one that was designed to help combat his lyrium withdrawal. It still nagged at him, giving him headaches and keeping him up at night, but the tea, at least, soothed the worst of the pain and made it bearable. When asked about the contents of said tea blend, Hawke had merely replied with, “Special plants grown in lyrium-infused water by a strange old lady who may or not may be possessed by an ancient elven goddess.”

Cullen wasn’t sure what to make of that and opted to let Hawke continue being the middleman. It seemed… the best choice.

Despite saying that she wouldn’t come by without alcohol to convince her, Isabela appeared out of the blue one day with her own bottle of fine wine, refusing to say where she got it from, and Merrill dropped by a few days following that, bringing with her a small batch of flowers that she put in a mason jar for them. Dorian seemed pleased with the gift, and when they started to wilt, he proceeded to dry them, hanging them upside down above his pillow.

Cole came and went as he pleased. Sometimes he would show up at normal, human hours, bringing with him sweets or letters from Cullen’s family, and at other times, he appeared when both men were struggling with insomnia in the dead of night. Like a ghost, he’d materialize at their door, his large hat held in his hands, and Cullen would stare at him for a moment before letting him in with a sigh. 

During those visits, Cole would never say anything. He would simply look between them--back and forth, back and forth. Dorian would eventually lose interest and go back to laying in bed, while Cullen would nurse a cup of coffee and rub at his temples as he waited for Cole to inevitably leave again without any further explanation.

This morning, however, was a little different, as when Cole rose from his post, perched as he was on one of the stools at their tiny table, he took Cullen’s hands in his own and led him outside. “Cole, I can’t. Dorian--” he began, already starting to pull his hands away, but Cole only tightened his hold on him. Cullen was surprised at the strength of the boy.

“Anders comes. Dorian will have company,” Cole replied, and sure enough, the healer appeared about thirty seconds later, blinking at the two of them; it was difficult to tell if he was surprised by them being out at this hour or if it was merely the sight of them together like this. Without revealing his thoughts, Anders dug into his worn coat for his pocket watch, and it glowed blue as he checked the time; the light faded as he stuffed it away again.

“Will you be long?” he asked, his gaze drifting over to the still-open door. 

“No,” Cole answered for the both of them, and Cullen stared at him again before he was being tugged down the cobblestone path toward the exterior wall of the tower.

“Where are we going?” he asked as he was led from one narrow walkway to another. The hour was late enough now that there were more people out and about, though given that this was Darktown, most individuals kept their heads down and minded their own business--and their belongings. This was a part of the level that Cullen had not yet been to, as he tended to travel toward the heart of Darktown whenever they needed anything rather than out toward the wall.

The boy, however, would not give him any answers until they had climbed up and out through a hatch. Cullen had gotten so disoriented by the journey that he half expected to be greeted by the scenery that he’d last seen when they had first entered Darktown. Instead, though, he saw the sky and the sea stretched out before them; to the east, the sun was rising, painting the waves in a soft, golden light. There was a fierce breeze here, salt heavy on the air, and after spending so much time _inside_ , it was incredibly refreshing.

While the tea was good at dulling the pain, it never went away entirely. This sea breeze? It seemed to do the trick, easing the ache away as surely as the waves wore away at the faraway shore.

Cole shut the hatch behind them and gestured for Cullen to join him a little further down on the landing. When the boy took a seat, Cullen did as well, resting his hands on his ankles. “So why are we here, Cole?” he asked, but the boy wouldn’t look at him.

“Empty eyes and broken hearts,” Cole started, raising a hand to jam his hat a little tighter down onto his head. “He hurts, and I want to help him. He hurts, but I don’t know how to fix it.”

Cullen sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “I still don’t know how you’re doing that, but I thought I asked you to stop looking inside my head,” he muttered. 

“But _you_ are the one who hurts,” Cole said simply. “How can I fix it? How can I fix the hurt?”

Cullen looked at him. He had assumed that the boy had meant that his thoughts had gone to Dorian again, which… wasn’t unusual these days. Still, Cullen was surprised that Cole had come to try and console _him_ , especially given the state that Dorian was in. “Is that why you brought me out here? To make me feel better?”

Cole simply nodded his head, and Cullen couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Thank you, Cole,” he replied. There was still something off about the boy, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but Cole had a good heart, that much Cullen knew. “I appreciate it.” Turning his gaze back toward the sea, he took a deep breath. “I’ll come back here when I need to rejuvenate myself.”

Maybe he could share this view with Dorian someday.

Cullen ended up losing track of how much time they spent out there, enjoying the fresh air and the distant sound of the waves crashing against the tower, and by the time Cullen returned to the hut that he now called home, he felt rather guilty for making Anders stay with Dorian for so long--at least, he did until he saw Bethany seated in a chair beside Dorian’s cot. She lifted her eyes from the book she was reading and smiled at the two of them.

“Anders left quite a while ago,” she said quietly, and beside her, Dorian shifted slightly, though he didn’t roll over. Cullen rather doubted that he was sleeping, but he wasn’t going to call him out on that. Cole, too, seemed to be looking at Dorian, and after a period of almost awkwardly long staring, he fished in his pocket and dug out a pack of cards, pressing them into Cullen’s hands.

They were well-used, and it looked like most of the cards had one burnt corner. He was about to ask Cole what had happened, when Cullen realized that this was the same deck of cards that he and Dorian had played with back in the Gallows; that felt like an eternity ago. The scorch marks had likely come from the mage’s encounter with the templars.

Standing on his toes and cupping his hand around his mouth, Cole whispered into his ear: “I think he’ll be happy if you play with him again.”

“How did you… ?”

“I want to help.”

That did nothing to explain how said cards had been retrieved (or who or maybe even, _what_ Cole was), but Cullen sighed quietly and nodded his head. Bethany smiled through the whole exchange and then rose to her feet to give Cole a quick hug before he disappeared as quickly and quietly as he had come. Bethany would stay a while longer, but she would leave eventually with Hawke, who came by with freshly made sandwiches that he’d purchased and some more of Cullen’s teabags.

With the siblings gone, the hut went quiet again.

Dorian had finally managed to get out of bed and was nibbling at his food while staring out the window, and Cullen followed suit, unsure of how and when to break the silence between them. After they both finished their meals and some intense internal deliberation on his part, he huffed and pulled the cards out from his pocket, placing them on the table between them.

“How about a game of Wicked Grace?” Cullen asked, hopeful. Dorian glanced over at him and then the deck of cards; it seemed to take him a moment, but it looked like he, too, recognized the cards for what they were. Long, elegant fingers reached out and closed around the deck, drawing them to the edge of the table before Dorian finally picked them up.

“Can I ask why you’re still here?” Dorian murmured, and though his eyes briefly darted up to catch Cullen’s, they dropped back down a moment later. “You don’t have to stay here in Darktown with me--or, at least, not in this same space.”

Cullen could still remember how panicked Dorian had looked when Cullen had tried leaving when he first awoke over at Anders’ clinic, and the words _don’t leave me_ still echoed in his thoughts. He remembered what it had felt like to hold Dorian’s hand; his fingers flexed at the memory.

Since then, he’d wanted to do it again (and again and again), but Cullen never knew if it was appropriate, if it was alright with Dorian.

“Because you asked me to stay,” he replied, a little uneasily; Cullen tried not to shift uncomfortably when Dorian gave him a mildly puzzled look, like he was trying to suss out the reasoning behind the statement. Clearly Dorian’s request for him to stay had just been for that moment, but Cullen was willing and hoping to extend that invitation. Though, had he worn out his welcome already?

Even taking Dorian out of the picture, though, there were a number of reasons why Cullen hadn’t left Darktown. After all, he couldn’t endanger his family by returning to Lowtown just yet, and he didn’t want to trouble Hawke more than he already was for the tea by going elsewhere where he was less accessible. “And… I wanted to ask what you were going to do next. If you needed help with… whatever may be coming up for you.”

“Next?” the mage asked, as if the idea of what came after this was completely and utterly absurd. Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I hadn’t given it any thought.”

“Did you still want to speak to the Grand Cleric? Or now that you’re out of the Circle, perhaps you could get on board the next Warden ship and continue on to Val Royeaux. I’m sure Hawke and the others could figure out a way to pass you off as a non-mage.”

A bitter smile pulled at Dorian’s lips before it faded back into a look of tired indifference. “You didn’t hear? They beat my secret out of me and laughed,” he responded, and at the look of shock on Cullen’s face, Dorian chuckled humorlessly. “They thought I was lying to them, so they just…”

He fell silent, and his expression shuttered. For a moment, Cullen thought that Dorian would go back to bed to avoid talking about it, but he simply let out a shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry for bringing it up. I didn’t know.”

Dorian waved him off but wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I should have known better than to come down south,” he muttered, digging a fingernail into the edge of the cards. “I was a fool to think that they would have listened to me.

“I was delusional to think that I could single handedly stop the rising of... “ Dorian raised a hand, like he wasn’t even sure what to call it anymore. “Of an ancient magister, come back from the dead.” He frowned and then set the deck of cards back on the table. “Who knows? Maybe this Elder One doesn’t even exist.”

There was a degree of bitterness in Dorian’s voice that he had never heard before, and Cullen wanted, desperately, to reach over and take his hand, to reassure him that he believed him--though he honestly didn’t really understand it. As far as he knew, necromancy was less about actually raising the dead, so much as infusing corpses with spirits. What sort of magic was needed to bring someone back from ancient times? Time magic? Blood magic?

“If you came all the way down here to warn the southern towers of this, then I think you had good reason,” Cullen replied gently, and he saw Dorian’s jaw tighten, watched as his throat worked. “I think you understood the real threat that this individual posed.”

“No one listened.”

“Still. I think you did the right thing.”

Dorian finally raised his eyes, and when he spoke again, the tone that he took broke Cullen’s heart. “But what did it cost me?”

_Too much_.

Cullen could hear those unspoken words, and as Dorian rose from his seat, Cullen scrubbed at his face and then placed his palms flat on the table. The mage had already lain back down in his cot with his back to Cullen; there was nothing else to be said tonight. 

With an apologetic look that he knew Dorian wouldn’t even see, Cullen got to his feet and went to the stove. A cup of his tea and he, too, would retire for the evening--not that he thought either of them would be getting much sleep tonight.

So much for that card game.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note about the new "Implied/Referenced Suicidal Ideation" tag that comes with this chapter! It is something one character assumes wrongly about another. (Fairly sure you all can figure out who is assuming about whom, but yes.) I figured it would be better to overtag than to undertag, so there you go.
> 
> Thanks again for reading everyone! :) ♥

At some point in the middle of the night, Cullen woke up to find Dorian crawling out of bed. When he lifted his head to see what was wrong, the mage waved him off and merely muttered, “Outhouse,” before disappearing out of the hut. With a grunt, Cullen acknowledged the statement and fell back asleep, thinking nothing more of it.

When consciousness found Cullen again, Dorian’s cot was still empty, and it took a moment for him to realize that that wasn’t normal or a good sign. How long had it been since he’d last awoken? The dull headache that usually accompanied his mornings was there, just as expected, but it meant that it took him longer before he started to move, realizing just what Dorian’s disappearance might mean. Mind still in a bit of a haze from sleep, he pressed a palm against the threadbare sheets they used to find them cold. Had Dorian never come back when he had left last night?

“Dorian?” he called, feeling panic slowly but surely overriding his drowsiness, and Cullen shoved his feet into his boots, threw on an old jacket, and stepped outside of the hut, unmindful of the fact that he had literally just rolled out of bed. 

Cullen found no one on the short walk over to the outhouse, and there was not a soul to ask about a wayward companion—not that he was entirely sure anyone would answer his query in any case. Worry was starting to build within him with each minute that passed without sight or sound of Dorian, and as he started to head back toward their hut, Cullen turned his eyes toward the nearby tower—or what passed for a tower in this area. 

It was a derelict building that probably once served a greater purpose—a watchtower for the tower guards perhaps, but these days, it did nothing more than serve as the home of vermin. It did, however, have a very high balcony, which made Cullen worry, especially given Dorian’s mood of recent. It wasn’t exactly easy to get inside the place, requiring a fair bit of force (or a well-placed spell) and a fairly long climb, but it wasn’t impossible to get up there. 

After racing over there, he found the door still locked and sealed--to his immense relief. Cullen did, however, find Dorian a short distance away, seated on the ground and bundled up in a heavy cloak. On top of being a tall structure, the tower had been built upon a bit of a man-made hill as well, and even without climbing the thing, one could get a fairly nice view of Darktown, drab though it might be. Drawn away from his thoughts, Dorian looked up at him when Cullen approached and gave him a confused look.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, and Cullen felt that he should be the one asking that question. Instead, he nodded his head and drew in a short breath. His headache was growing more prominent with each passing minute, especially with the adrenaline draining out of his body now that he’d found Dorian, but as he’d immediately come out to find Dorian, he had missed his chance to drink his morning dose of tea. Cullen _could_ go back into the hut and remedy the problem, but… Another idea came to mind then.

“Come on. I want to show you something,” he said, extending a hand to Dorian. “Something better than this.” Just a little warily, Dorian took took the proffered hand and got to his feet before brushing himself off. While there was nothing to stop them from heading back to home for a moment, Cullen didn’t want to chance losing Dorian to the interior of the hut. They were both outside; he might as well take advantage of it.

“Where are we going?” Dorian asked, absently taking in the buildings around him. Cullen didn’t doubt for a moment that this was nothing like Dorian’s home back in Minrathous, but at least Dorian was free to roam--something that hadn’t happened since his arrival in Kirkwall.

How long had it been since Dorian’s arrival? Cullen had lost track of the exact length of time, but he knew it to be several months at the very least.

Hawke continued to bring back reports that Meredith still searched for her escaped Minrathous mage, though she didn’t dare bring her templars down to Darktown; he made a mental note to try and write a letter to Barris, to see how his brother in arms was doing now that he was alone in the Circle. Cullen’s family stated that templars still came to visit their residence on occasion, and Merrill would tell Cullen stories about how the Alienage elves would run the knights off for fun. Darktown remained, at least for now, a sanctuary.

“Outside,” Cullen replied simply, not wanting to spoil the surprise. Since Cole had shown him that hatch a few days ago, Cullen had visited it several times when others had come to spend a few hours with Dorian, and he had come to see it as a private refuge--a place that he now wanted to share with the mage. Maybe the landing would be able to help Dorian as it had helped him. “What were you doing this morning anyway?”

“Anders told me to try and get out more.” Dorian shrugged. “For my health.”

While that made sense and Cullen recalled hearing those very words come out of the healer’s mouth, he was surprised that Dorian was actually taking them to heart. The outhouse _was_ pretty much the only reason that Dorian left the hut these days, so it was surprising, to say the least, that he had strayed off of that beaten path. Unlike Cullen, Dorian didn’t really know where to _go_ in Darktown; really, Cullen was just thankful that he’d been _able_ to find Dorian so quickly and easy.

He didn’t even want to entertain the idea of losing the mage here.

“Are you… feeling better now?” Dorian’s mental state wasn’t something that Cullen felt particularly comfortable asking about, given that he wasn’t entirely sure where the two of them stood in regards to their relationship, but if the man was here, walking beside him, then he figured that he was doing better today--at least well enough to accompany him on his stroll.

“It could be worse.” The answer was neither here nor there, but Dorian still offered him a grim and fleeting smile; Cullen was willing to accept that answer and smiled wryly in return.

They fell silent as they continued to walk toward the wall, and by the time they’d reached the hatch, it was clear that Dorian knew where they were going--at least, he thought they knew where they were going. Still, he followed gamely and without complaint, climbing up the ladder before Cullen, though he allowed him to actually open the hatch for them.

The salty air greeted them as soon as the hatch opened, and Cullen heaved a sigh of relief when they stepped outside. Dorian followed suit but did not move further to join Cullen along the landing; the pause made Cullen reconsider what he’d done, and horror surged through him as he saw the sickly expression appear on Dorian’s face.

“Cullen, I--” He didn’t even finish his sentence before he ducked back inside, and Cullen hurried after him. This was clearly a bad idea; a thousand apologies were already filling his head as he darted back through the hatch. Thankfully, Dorian was simply seated against the wall, his head buried in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Dorian, I wasn’t thinking.” In hindsight, this was probably traumatic for the mage. After all, his whole horrific stay here in Kirkwall had started with a shipwreck. “I should have realized that this would make you uncomfortable…”

The mage waved him off weakly. It took Dorian a moment, but he eventually raised his head. “No, it’s not the shipwreck--” So, Dorian knew what was going through Cullen’s head. “--I just get seasick.”

“Oh.” The panic drained from Cullen’s body, and he laughed weakly as he sank down on the ground beside Dorian, not that it was really a laughing matter. The hatch remained open next to him, and from here, he could still hear the crash of the waves and smell the sea air. Though the view of the waves certainly helped him, those two things were enough for him now; the worst of his headache started to ebb. Still… “Do you need me to close the hatch?”

“No, that’s… that’s fine. It’s the visual of the waves that gets to me.” Dorian huffed a sigh. “It’s… not as bad as being _on_ the water, but this is a problem I’ve had since Minrathous.”

And despite his seasickness, Dorian had still left in an attempt to warn the other towers about the potential threat of this Elder One.

“You… really _have_ had a rough journey since leaving your home,” he finally said, and Dorian shrugged a shoulder before dragging a hand through his hair.

“You could say that, yes.”

It was honestly a rather large understatement, but Cullen wasn’t about to draw attention to that. They fell back into silence as they sat next to this hatch, enjoying the smell and sound of the sea. Their legs dangled through the railings as they looked out at Darktown, and Cullen decided that there really wasn’t any better view of the place than from the outer edges. Even if they managed to get up to one of the old towers, it wasn’t likely that the view would be quite so expansive.

Cullen was about to point out the landmarks that he could see from here to Dorian when he started a little at the feeling of the mage’s head dropping against his shoulder. Dorian had sagged further against him, resting the weight of his body against Cullen’s side. Cullen stared for a moment before schooling his expression into one filled with a little less surprise. Thankfully, it was in place when Dorian glanced up at him.

“I never said thank you for taking care of me all this time,” he said, long fingers picking at the hem of his shirt. The gown from the medical bay was long gone, but the quality of clothing that they both wore now were not especially fine either; Cullen didn’t doubt that it was nothing like what Dorian used to wear back in Minrathous, but the mage never complained. “Especially since you’re dealing with your own troubles now.”

“I’m doing what any decent man would have done.”

A wry laugh slipped past Dorian’s lips, and after he’d let his gaze slip back out to the sprawl of Darktown, Cullen felt the mage lightly shake his head against his shoulder. “You say that, but I think you know as well as I do that that’s not the case.”

“Hawke would have--”

“Hawke would have provided for me, but he would not have tended to me like you have.” Cullen opened his mouth and then shut it, realizing that what Dorian had said was likely true. Hawke was truly a kind and generous man--rescuing individuals from the Circle and then providing them a second chance here in Darktown--but he simply did not have the time or resources to do more.

A small, ghost of a smile appeared on Dorian’s lips. “See? I’m always right.”

That sounded more like the Dorian that Cullen once knew, and the thought brought a brighter smile to his face as he conceded defeat with a grunt. “Alright, so I may have gone a bit beyond what was necessary,” he muttered, though not unkindly.

“So accept my gratitude.”

“Fine, fine, since you’re pulling my leg.” Cullen felt an elbow gently nudge against his side. “You’re very welcome, Dorian.”

Dorian nodded his head, and once more, they fell into companionable silence. After a while, it became apparent that Dorian had fallen asleep, and Cullen had to feel a tiny sense of pride that the mage felt so comfortable with him. True, they’d been sharing a living space for quite a while now, but this, he felt like, was different. The only problem was that it meant that Cullen had to try not to read too much into the action.

While he liked to think of this little outing as a sign of recovery on Dorian’s part, he knew well enough that to look for anything beyond companionship was foolish. This was a fragile show of trust on Dorian’s part, and Cullen didn’t want to break it--treasuring that bond far more than the desire to seek out more.

But he wouldn’t delude himself any longer: Cullen was definitely developing feelings for the mage. 

He could have walked out of Dorian’s life long ago, and while he’d originally told himself that it was out of a sense of duty, those days had long since passed. Duty did not mean that Cullen had to stay with Dorian here in Darktown; it was as Dorian said: Hawke would have provided for Dorian, and he would have survived here until he was well enough to take care of himself. Cullen could have moved away, started a new life for himself, but instead, he remained at the man’s side.

Cullen would see this mage well again, would see him restored to, at the very least, what he was when he was at his peak in the Gallows, if not the individual who existed before his fateful journey to Kirkwall. He could still hear the man’s laughter, and he didn’t think that he could ever forget about Dorian’s wit and charm. This was a man worth saving--a man worth giving up his career for. Though they had been battered and bruised, Dorian had a heart and spirit that was greater than himself, and Cullen thought it a waste to lose them.

He had, after all, thrown himself head-first into peril’s way for what he thought was the greater good. Though Dorian had spoken highly of him in the past, Cullen wasn’t sure he could match his courage and tenacity.

Looking out over Darktown, Cullen saw the two of them at their lowest: both literally and figuratively. There was, he decided, nowhere to go but up from here.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Hey you. Thanks again for coming along on this self-indulgent ride of mine. ♥

It was an effort to pick himself up day after day, and it was an effort to find some reason to keep trying, to keep bothering. Cullen was an immense help, aiding him without stepping on his toes, as were the others who came to brighten his spirits--Bethany and Merrill, especially. Cole reminded him too much of closed off walls and cruel hands to be of much comfort, and Hawke and Isabel were often too loud and boisterous for his liking. Anders was pleasant enough, though his visits sometimes felt too… clinical to be truly enjoyable.

That said, Dorian was always welcome of their company when they stopped by, and he always made a point to at least greet them unless he was feeling especially poor that day.

His return to normalcy was not, Dorian was learning, an easy, linear path: it was winding and crooked, full of dead ends and loops. There were days where he felt as if he’d found the light at the end of the tunnel, but when the next morning came, Dorian would feel as if he’d been thrown into the darkest of pits, lost and hopeless. All sense of normalcy had flown out the window, and on more than one occasion, Dorian wondered how he’d functioned so well in the past. How had he just gotten out of bed and proceeded with his day? The idea seemed so alien to him now.

Time passed, and Merrill came by one day to cut his hair. “Goodness, it’s nearly at your waist now!” she had exclaimed, and the elf had laughed. Her hands had been so gentle in his hair, combing out the tangles and then braiding it into a loose plait when she had finished; Dorian had thought of cutting it short again, like he had kept it in Minrathous, but short hair meant more frequent trimming and upkeep--something he didn’t care for right now. A simple brushing was easier than that and far more manageable for the time being.

She had tucked a small flower behind his ear before she left, waving goodbye to both he and Cullen, who had just recently returned from his job for the evening.

Dorian still hadn’t asked what it was that he did, but Hawke had found it for him--something simple and apparently inconsistent, but it kept the man moving. According to Cullen, it gave him purpose and made him feel better about himself; this would have made Dorian feel self-conscious, but he always came over and pressed a warm hand to Dorian’s shoulder, telling him to go at his own pace and that his own recovery was more important right now.

Tonight was no different.

“I’m here to support you until you can stand on your own two feet.” How long did he have until Cullen’s patience wore thin? How long did he have until his companion grew tired of providing for him? “Just think about what you want to do in the future. Here or elsewhere.”

His smile was so warm and effusive that Dorian had to look away.

“The flower is nice, by the way--and the haircut.” The comment was softly spoken and nearly a throwaway line that it took Dorian a moment to register it. When he finally did, he touched a hand to the small blossom and laughed softly.

“You can thank Merrill.”

“Perhaps I should ask her for a trim as well. Maker knows this is longer than I’ve ever kept it…” Indeed, Cullen’s hair was a mess of curls now, though he usually pulled it back into a small tail at the nape of his neck. Dorian shrugged his shoulders, rather ambivalent about it: Cullen was a handsome man either way; this was something that the shifting of his mood would not change. The man caught that shrug and laughed.

“At the very least, I have to keep my hair shorter than yours. It’ll become too unruly if I let it grow any longer. I don’t have the hair type to pull it off like you.”

Cullen bustled about the hut, putting together a hasty meal for them, and as he set it down on their small shared table, he paused a moment, as if trying to figure out how to broach a subject with Dorian. He _wanted_ to tell the man that he wasn’t made of glass and that he could handle whatever was about to come out of his mouth, but that just wasn’t the case. So, instead, Dorian kept his lips sealed, waiting for Cullen to take the initiative, as usual.

“I was speaking to Hawke earlier today. They’re… going to head back up to the Circle, fetch another mage.” Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck, looking momentarily awkward. “I’ve decided to go with him and help out. Barris may be leaving the Gallows as well, though he’s yet to tell Cole of his final decision.

“I still don’t understand how Cole moves the way he does, but… It’s useful.” He shook his head. “In any case, I’ll be just a few days.” Cullen reached across the table, and for a moment, Dorian thought that he was going to take his hand; he fell short though, and he didn’t try to bridge the remaining distance. “Will you be alright? Merrill and Anders will come and check on you, but I’m not sure if either of them will stay…”

Dorian’s first instinct was to turn inwards. This was it: Cullen was leaving him. The man could say that he would be returning, but he wouldn’t; Dorian would be abandoned because Cullen had had enough of his moping. He had chased off his companion, and the others were sure to follow soon. Dorian never should have come here, he shouldn’t have, this was a mistake, this was all a mistake--

“Dorian?” Cullen’s fingers curled around his own now, tight enough to draw Dorian out of his thoughts. He jerked his head up to stare at Cullen and then hastily rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hands; they were wet with tears. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, now feeling his face flush with shame. Dorian was a grown man; he had no right or reason to be crying because Cullen was leaving for a few days. Not forever. _A few days._ “It’s… it’s fine. I’ll be fine until you return.”

“If you need me here, I can stay. Someone else can go in my place--”

“I said I’m _fine_ ,” he snapped. Cullen blinked at him in shock, and Dorian immediately felt abashed. Food all but forgotten now, he held his face in his hands for a moment and dragged a shaky breath into his lungs. “I… I can’t _keep_ you here forever.

“You are your own man, and I shouldn’t be allowed to dictate your actions,” he continued, dragging his fingers through his hair and ruining Merrill’s braid. “You’ve been so patient with me, and I cannot forget to be grateful for that--”

“Dorian, I--”

“I promise I’ll be fine, Cullen.” Though his voice shook, Dorian was resolute in this, and he hoped that the man could tell. Cullen looked… Well, he was surprised that he couldn’t read the expression on the man’s face; Cullen was usually very open with his feelings, but he had closed up now. Dorian cursed himself internally because that clearly meant that Cullen didn’t believe a word that was coming out of his mouth.

“You don’t have to stay for my sake,” he finished lamely, gaze dropping back down to the simple meal of cheese, bread, and some roasted vegetables that Cullen had thrown together. The man sighed and gave Dorian’s fingers another squeeze before letting his hand go.

“I’ll think about it some more,” Cullen finally said. Dorian nodded his head but kept his eyes trained on the table until Cullen started to eat; then and only then did he lift his gaze and start on his food as well.

The silence that fell between them was just a little uncomfortable, but awkward silences weren’t entirely unusual between the two of them these days--though it was usually Dorian’s fault on that front. When they finished, Cullen gathered their plates, and Dorian stayed at the table, unfocused eyes trained on some random point outside the window.

“When do you leave?” he asked, not looking in the other’s direction. Cullen moved about, rinsing down the dishes in the small basin of water he’d picked up earlier.

“A week. Hawke says that it’ll take us about three days to get to the top and three days to get back down here, provided that our guests aren’t in too bad of shape.”

 _Like me,_ Dorian thought bitterly, but he didn’t allow the sentiment to slip onto his countenance. Instead, he merely nodded his head and chewed at his lip. In a week, Cullen would be leaving, and if all went well, he would be gone for almost a week. If it didn’t… 

The man could be delayed for longer, or worse still, he might never return--captured, lost, or dead.

“I know I mentioned it before, but I really will speak with Anders and Merrill soon to see if they can keep you company. If not, then I’ll stay here with you.” Cullen had come back to the table, and Dorian turned to look at him, lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to put on a brave face, but he was terrified of holding Cullen back, of losing him.

“What do I have to do to prove that I’ll be fine?”

“This isn’t about proving anything to me,” Cullen replied gently before he pulled his chair over so that he could sit right next to Dorian. “If you feel like I’m getting in your way, then tell me so, but I don’t want you to think that you’re keeping me here against my will.

“I _want_ to be here, Dorian. I want to be here for _you_.”

There was something in the way that Cullen said that that made Dorian wonder, made his brow crease. Was there more to that statement? Cullen seemed to notice that Dorian had picked up on _something_ , and he cleared his throat and glanced away, huffing quietly. “I’m not asking for you to give me or do anything in return.

“Just focus on getting better and figuring out what _you_ want to do when you feel more like yourself.”

“What I want to do…” Cullen nodded his head, and Dorian bit at his lower lip. 

When no answer seemed to be immediately forthcoming, Cullen got back to his feet and stretched, his back popping. He moved his chair back to where it was supposed to be and then dug out the singed deck of cards that Cole had returned to them. While Dorian had taken to looking back out the window, Cullen’s hands stilled a moment on the deck, as if he was considering whether or not Dorian wanted to play with him, but he resumed shuffling a moment later and then laid out a solo card game.

It was clear that neither of them had forgotten the argument they’d gotten into the last time Cullen had offered a game.

The hut fell quiet again, save for the sounds of Cullen flipping cards, and after a while, he made himself a cup of tea. Dorian remained lost in his thoughts, though it often felt like he thought of nothing at all, a sort of numbness settling over him as he stared out the window. Time passed, and before he knew it, Cullen was rising again from the table, the deck of cards slipping back into its worn and battered box.

“Could I come with you?” The voice seemed to come from elsewhere--not from his own mouth.

Cullen stared at him, the deck of cards held loosely in his hands, as he blinked in surprise. In truth, Dorian was about as shocked as he was.

“What?” He shook his head, a curly strand of hair slipping out of the tie that he wore. “You… want to come with me? Back to the Circle?”

“Maybe that’s what I need. To… get back to normal.”

“Dorian, I…” He seemed to be torn about what to say next. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’m a battle mage. Of course it’s a good idea.”

“When was the last time you’d used any magic?” Before Dorian could say anything, Cullen pressed onward. “Really used some magic to fight.”

Dorian opened his mouth and then closed it. Cullen, unfortunately, had a point there: unlike when he’d been recovering in the Gallows, he had done little to no magical exercises here. The few times that he _had_ used his magic, Dorian had only used a few minor spells: starting the fire in the stove, cooling his drink, or playing with a wisp of flame. The magical might was there, but it sort of felt like the ferocity that he had once felt as a mage was gone.

“I suppose it was the night that Ser Barris and I were attacked,” he confessed, looking down at his hands as he flexed his fingers.

Cullen smiled at him, though not unkindly. “As much as I’d like to see you in action, I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“I didn’t say you are.”

Cullen wore the look of a man who wanted to say more but caught himself at the last minute. There was something so incredibly earnest in his gaze, and then there was the warmth of his hand, slipping over to cover his own. Dorian had taken comfort from that touch a number of times since they had escaped the Circle together; he wondered if this was a tradition that they could continue, as Dorian liked it a great deal.

“How about this? You… work on getting better, and the next time that Hawke needs to run up to the Circle, I’ll tell him that you’re interested in helping out.” Cullen smiled at him, and Dorian hunched his shoulders, nodding his head. He was still unsure about whether or not the man would actually be returning to him, if he opted to go, but it was clear that there was no dissuading Cullen from helping out Hawke.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, absently lacing their fingers together. “Putting yourself in harm’s way when the reward for yourself is likely minimal, if there’s any at all.” Cullen stared at the tangle of their hands for a moment before looking at him.

“Because it’s the right thing to do. Someone--” A squeeze of his hand that had Dorian swallowing against the lump now caught in his throat. “--taught me that a little while ago.” Cullen laughed softly and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “It makes sense for me to go back.”

_To atone._

Dorian heard those unspoken words loud and clear, and he nodded his head, eyes downcast. His own reasons for wanting to suddenly join Hawke and Cullen were far less honorable: Dorian simply didn’t want to be left alone here. As if hearing his thoughts, Cullen gave his hand another squeeze and then--

And then Cullen took his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, soft and all too brief.

He lifted his eyes and stared at the man, who was wearing a soft smile and had a light flush across his cheeks. Dorian continued to gawk, dumbfounded, until Cullen chuckled awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dorian. That was out of line.”

Words got stuck in his throat, and Dorian turned away, pulling his hand back to his chest in the process. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cullen rise from the table and mutter something about running to the outhouse. He heard the door to their hut open and close, and then there was nothing but silence--impossibly loud now in his ears.

Dorian remembered a time when he leapt at the opportunity to be with any man who expressed interest in him. Why, he could even recall flirting with Cullen on a number of occasions back in the Gallows. So to have that small amount of attention throw him off so much was… strange--uncharacteristic of him, honestly.

 _Why?_ he asked himself, rubbing one hand over the other. _Did the Core change me that much?_

A week came and went, and while things had been, perhaps, a bit awkward at the start, everything had settled into their normal routine by the time Cullen was due to leave with Hawke. Neither of them spoke of _that incident_ , though Dorian did continue to think about it, often finding himself staring at his hand, like it held the answers to all of the questions he had.

They had spent the last two days discussing whether or not Dorian would be _okay_ with Cullen leaving, and once it was determined that he was, they’d both asked Merrill to stay over. She had agreed readily and promised to bring more flowers to braid into Dorian’s hair; she even created a flower crown for Cullen, resting it carefully atop his hair when she arrived with a small knapsack slung over her shoulder.

While she bustled about the hut, Dorian stepped outside with Cullen, who had hoisted his own bag onto his back. He was decked out in his templar gear again, down to the sword and pistol, and while it had been quite a while since Dorian had seen him that way, the sight of it still made his insides twist uncomfortably. Cullen seemed to notice his discomfort and was about to depart with a simple nod of the head, but Dorian caught his gauntleted hand before he could get too far.

That was the first time they had touched since Cullen had kissed his hand.

“Come back to me safe and sound,” he said, and Dorian tried for a smile, small and tired though it might have been. Cullen, at least, seemed to appreciate the effort, as his own smile was warm. “I won’t forgive you otherwise.”

“I’ll be fine, Dorian. You just worry about yourself.” He felt Cullen give his fingers a little squeeze before letting go, the touch lingering just a little longer than what could be considered normal. “See you soon.”

And then? Then he was gone.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading. ♥

Dorian had spent the last four days with flowers in his hair.

It wasn’t a bad thing, though he did have a unfortunate tendency to forget about them when he was bathing, which meant that he’d be stuck plucking strays petals out of his freshly washed hair later on. Merrill would simply giggle when he turned to her for help, but her cheerful attitude was infectious; it kept him from thinking _too_ hard about what had happened in the Core, his stay here in Kirkwall as a whole, or warm brown eyes and soft lips against his hand.

(To avoid thinking about Cullen entirely, though, was impossible.)

He would take strolls with the elf in Darktown on the days when he felt better, and it was nice to actually learn about the various nooks and crannies of his new home--a term that he used tentatively. A part of Dorian still wanted to return to Minrathous desperately, to turn back the hands of time so that he’d never left, but another much _smaller_ part of him, despite all that had happened, was a little hesitant to let it all go.

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Merrill chirruped from beside him, and Dorian glanced over at her and blinked. 

“Pardon?”

“You’re looking wistful. Like you miss something or someone.” She didn’t press for more, though he could tell from the eager look in her eyes that she would be more than happy to hear more if such an option was on the table. Merrill had her hands loosely clasped behind her back as they walked, and Dorian sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “I was just thinking about Minrathous and the people I’ve met since coming to Kirkwall.”

“I’ve heard that it’s very pretty there,” she replied, her gaze lifting upwards, as if to take in Darktown; Dorian did the same, and he couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“It is. Val Royeaux cannot compare, never mind Kirkwall.” Kirkwall was, in his opinion, a bit of a shithole, but unfortunately, it was a shithole that he was stuck living in at this moment. Merrill didn’t seem to take offense to that; instead she laughed and swung her arms forward and then up above her head.

“When this is all done, will you go back?”

_When this is all done._ Dorian wasn’t even sure what that even meant anymore. Merrill knew why he had originally come to Kirkwall--all of Hawke’s group did--but he wasn’t sure what finishing his journey would entail. Did it mean speaking to Grand Cleric Elthina? Meeting with Divine Justinia?

Almost every day since being rescued from the Core, Cullen had told him to think on what he wanted to do now that he was free, but the answer was still murky: Dorian had his life back, in some sense, and yet, he lacked terribly in direction. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been so _lost_ in his entire life. All he knew was that he wouldn’t be the same man that he was when he left Minrathous. 

“I’d like to return some day.” Dorian was fairly sure that everyone there thought he was dead now, and while he didn’t know how his parents would feel about the matter, he wanted to think that his friends, at least, mourned him. He had, apparently, just missed the most recent Warden vessel to come by the tower immediately after his arrival in Darktown, but Dorian was determined to write Felix at the next opportunity: Isabela promised that she had contacts who could sneak his letter into the mail, despite Kirkwall’s heavy-handed approach to mage transport and communication.

“I’ll miss you when you go,” Merrill replied, and she curled an arm around Dorian’s, patting his hand with her free one. “We all will.”

“I... appreciate the sentiment.”

Would anyone want to return with him to Minrathous? The mages, at least, would do better there than here, and unless something was done about the Knight Captain, things would likely not get any better; the oppression would simply continue. And Cullen… Well, the man had his entire family here. What point would there be in trying to tear him away from them? The thought of leaving the man behind in Kirkwall hurt more than Dorian cared to admit.

“We’ll need to make a lot of good memories before you go back!” Judging from the soft smile on her face, Merrill intended to replace all of the horrors that he’d encountered since leaving his home tower with something better. When Dorian offered up a small smile of his own, hers bloomed, and she nodded her head. “You’ll need to stop by the Alienage and Lowtown before you go for sure, but for now, let me show you a special place.”

With a grin, she took his hand and started to run.

Though he almost tripped and fell flat on his face a few times, Dorian managed to make it to their destination without making a complete fool out of himself. He was, admittedly, a little short on breath, and it reminded him of how little physical activity he’d participated in since his arrival here. Indeed, it probably _was_ a good thing that Cullen left him in Darktown, as he would have been nothing but a liability.

“So what is this place, hm?” Dorian had actually expected her to take him to another hatch like Cullen had, but no, they were standing in front of a very large and very heavy door. The thing looked almost as if it had been welded shut, but Merrill simply smiled, tilting her head toward it.

“Just a little haven for us mages.” With glowing hands, the elf energized the door which shifted slowly but surely to the side to allow the two of them entrance; after they stepped inside, Merrill shut the door behind them.

For all of the… darkness in Darktown, Dorian was not expecting this sanctuary. To say that it was a large room would have been an understatement, and it was filled with natural light, given that part of the ceiling and the entire outer wall was missing. It was as if the original design had called for additional construction here to connect it to something else, but for whatever reason, it had never happened, leaving a partially completed room leading to nowhere at all.

An elegant, waist-high fence had been erected at the far end of the room, and a number of practice dummies clad in templar gear were lined up in front of it. Surprisingly plush rugs were spread out across the stone floor, accompanied by large, comfy-looking cushions in a variety of colors; multiple lyrium lamps dotted the room for when the sun set. Several cats meowed from where they rested, and a handful of them came to greet the visitors. Merrill scooped a fluffy white one up into her arms, and Dorian bent to offer pettings to a tabby that came to nose at his booted foot.

“This is actually something Anders put together with Bethany, but it’s open to every single mage that lives here, which includes you.” When it looked like Dorian was going to point out the complete _lack_ of mages at the moment, Merrill laughed and shook her head. “Not many take advantage of this place. I would have shown you earlier, but…”

“I wasn’t in the right mood to visit.”

“I feel like you started to get a little better after Cullen left,” she mused, and Dorian had to look away. Had the man caused such a noticeable difference in him with his departure? True, he had become more determined to go out more frequently. It didn’t always work, but Dorian _was_ trying to find normality again. After all, Cullen had told him that he could only come along on the next excursion to the Circle if he was better, and apparently, staying in the hut was not helping him get better.

Still, he had to attribute much of his success in leaving the hut to Merrill herself. To say that he still didn’t have bad days would have been a farce, and Dorian wasn’t expecting a miracle where his mood and spirit magically would fix itself. (Oh, but if only there were such a spell!) He did, however, have a goal set for himself now, and it was something that he could work toward in small and sometimes halting steps.

“So what do you do here?” he asked instead, not wanting her to poke and pry too much in regards to that particular subject. “Other than… relax, I suppose?”

Merrill gave him a look suggesting that she knew that he didn’t want to linger on that particular topic, and while she looked just a little disappointed, she didn’t press the issue. Mentally, Dorian thanked her for it. “I normally come here to practice! Anders does as well and Bethany, too.”

She pointed to the wall to their left, and Dorian noticed that there were a number of staves there, old and worn. Merrill smiled and nudged him toward them. “You probably haven’t held one of those since you came here,” she said softly, following a few steps behind him. “And I know that you don’t really _need_ a staff, but you never know when you might need to hit a templar!”

“I wonder if Stannard still has mine…” he murmured as he grasped one of the staves: this one was made of a dark, unyielding wood that gave it a solid weight in his hand, and while it lacked a blade and the grip was worn down to threads, Dorian felt a little better to have it in his hands. He gave it a slow whirl between his hands and then looked at Merrill, who gestured toward the open area of the room.

“The cats know better than to get too close when someone is practicing,” she said, letting her own little fluffy bundle go; the creature mewed at her but took off a moment later. Wrapping an arm around Dorian’s again, she dragged him toward the outer edge of the room before taking a step back when they were both well in the open. “Cullen told me that you haven’t really done any magic--any _real_ magic in a while.

“I think it’d be good for you to let loose. Just a suggestion from one mage to another.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Burning through magic had always worked well in the past to help Dorian de-stress, being almost on par with having sex to make him feel better, and he had had neither for quite some time. Nearby, Merrill made encouraging motions with her hand, her eyes bright and a warm smile on her lips.

“Well, go on! I want to see what a mage from Minrathous can do!”

Once upon a time, Dorian would have shown off the full extent of his abilities without a second thought. He was a proud Minrathous battlemage, educated in the best schools of magic, and his skill was, he believed, among the best that the tower had to offer. Now though, Dorian felt almost _shy_ about demonstrating his prowess.

It was not, perhaps, a surprise, given that he’d been beaten and harried for even using a small amount of healing magic on himself during his stay in the Core, but it took a moment for him to remember that this was whom he was. Dorian Pavus was a mage, and as a mage, it was a waste of his talents not to _use_ his magic.

Shutting his eyes, Dorian found that familiar and comforting well of magic within himself--something that had been depleted and emptied multiple times since he left Minrathous. It was full to brimming now, humming with power, and it felt a little like coming home, as he drew upon it.

With an easy movement of his arm, he whirled the staff around his waist, as his eyes snapped back open, and one of the practice dummies burst into flame. Dorian quickly followed that with a burst of lightning, the magic arcing from his fingertips as he slammed the weapon down onto floor; it left a black mark there on the stone as he lifted the staff back up. A towering wall of flame swept toward the fence, enveloping the remainder of the practice dummies in fire.

Arms spread wide, he then let loose a barrage of lightning bolts, and Dorian grinned, feral, as several of the practice dummies teetered precariously on their stands and then fell over. Even from here, he could feel the heat of his magic against his skin; Dorian could also feel the crackle of electricity and smell the ozone in the air. With a shout, he summoned a large storm of ice next, chilling the practice dummies and leaving frost across the open area before gripping the staff with both hands and forcing raw magic out and away from him.

The remainder of the practice dummies fell over, and Dorian sank to his knees, leaning against the staff. He panted, sweat beading his brow, but he was grinning, happy in a way that he hadn’t felt in some time. This was a feeling that he had missed, and as he planted a hand against the ground, Dorian felt a part of himself return to him.

Merrill was right. He’d needed this.

Nearby, he could hear the elf excitedly clapping her hands, and a moment later, she was coming over to him and hauling him back to his feet. “Oh, that was marvelous!” she exclaimed, clearly delighted at the display. “That was great, Dorian! I just wish that Bethany and Anders could have seen it as well.

“Bethany will probably want some tips from you when she hears about how good you are.”

Dorian smiled. “I suppose I could spend some time with her here,” he said with a slight nod of the head. “It shouldn’t be long before she and the others return.”

“That’s right. Cullen will be back soon.” The way that Merrill singled out Cullen from the entire group gave Dorian pause, but she merely giggled and smiled at him before moving away to right the practice dummies. Quietly, he set the staff down and then went to help her, though he could still see that she was wearing a knowing smile on her lips.

There was nothing to be done about the outfits on the practice dummies, but they were, at least, standing upright again, even if they were all badly charred. Dorian patted on one the shoulder before returning to put up his staff, and then he and Merrill spent the remainder of the afternoon seated on cushions, simply chatting about magical theory and petting cats.

(This place was, apparently, also Ander’s cat shelter. The man seemed to enjoy collecting felines and apostates.)

The sun was setting and painting the room in shades of red and gold when they finally stood up to leave. The two of them bid farewell to their kitty companions, and this time, it was Dorian who used a brief energizing spell to move the door and then shut it behind them.

Dorian and Merrill continued to discuss the finer differences between Tevinter and Dalish magical use as they meandered back toward the hut. Really, he was rather fascinated by what Merrill could tell him about the Dalish--a small sect of the elves that still struggled to practice the old ways, though much of their heritage had been obliterated with the coming of the Blight.

She was just detailing the significance of the tattoos on her face when they arrived back home, only to find Anders standing impatiently by their door.

“Thank the Maker you’re back,” he said, looking more tired and harried than usual. Just by looking at his body language, it was clear that something was very _wrong_ , and given that the three of them were quite alright, Dorian could only assume that something had happened to Hawke’s party. He was about to explain where he and Merrill had gone when Anders simply shook his head. “Cole just came by.” He raised a hand to stay their questions. “Hawke was ambushed in Lowtown. The entire group is being held by templars there.”

Dorian’s blood ran cold.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is now officially the longest thing I've ever written, complete or incomplete, and I have to say that I feel so much happier writing this one than I had with those other stories. :) The others had really started to feel like a chore (or like pulling teeth!) after a certain point. I guess that's the difference writing what you want makes, haha.
> 
> Thanks again for coming along for the ride. ♥

Dorian and Merrill rushed about the hut, gathering a number of items for the journey to Lowtown. Anders had instructed them to head back to the mage sanctuary in thirty minutes to formulate a plan before striking out. A part of him wanted to just dismiss the entire idea of _planning_ , but deep down, Dorian knew that entering this situation without a clue was just going to get them all captured, if not killed.

“Are you sure you want to come, Dorian?” Merrill asked, shouldering her knapsack and looking at him with concern. Like Cullen, she was likely worried about whether or not he was _ready_ for this, _ready_ to return to the field. “No one will blame if you--”

“I’m going,” he muttered, moving over to the part of the hut that could be loosely called a kitchen and grabbed Cullen’s extra teabags. If they were being held prisoner, then he certainly wouldn’t have gotten to have his usual dosage; Dorian could only imagine the suffering that he was experiencing right now. “I might not be part of your group--”

“You are.” Merrill’s voice was quiet but resolute, and those two words gave Dorian pause as he looked over his shoulder at her. “You already are, Dorian.”

He hadn’t been expecting that. Dorian Pavus was a pariah--always was, always would be. It didn’t matter if it was here in Kirkwall or back at home in Minrathous: he had grown accustomed to being the odd one out. Back in Minrathous, it was because he stood against the powerful and because of his supposedly _unsavory_ preferences in the bedroom; in Kirkwall, it was because he was a man from _Minrathous_ and a mage.

And yet, here was this elf apostate telling him that he belonged.

Turning, Dorian came to stand before Merrill and offered a fleeting smile. “All the more reason for me to come then,” he said quietly. “If my friends have need of me, then who am I to refuse them my talents?”

Merrill, as it turned out, was easier to convince than Cullen, and she simply nodded her head before gesturing for them to head out the door. The journey back to the sanctuary was considerably quicker than before, but when they arrived, Anders was already there, studying a number of maps on the floor. Nearby, Cole was seated, cross-legged, on a cushion; he and the healer were discussing something in low tones. Both individuals lifted their heads when Dorian and Merrill entered.

“Cole was just telling me where the others are located,” Anders said in way of explanation; he beckoned them closer with a simple wave of the hand. With the door back in place, the two of them brought cushions over, taking a seat around the arrangement of maps. They were yellowed with age but carefully cared for, and Dorian had to wonder how long Anders--the group, probably--had been in custody of these documents; they looked like something the Chantry would normally keep under lock and key.

Anders tapped his finger against a spot in the northwest quadrant of Lowtown, though that meant very little to Dorian. Merrill, at least, seemed to understand the importance of that location, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “They didn’t--” she started, clearly aghast. “Did they?”

“They did.” Anders sighed and leaned back, withdrawing his hand in the process. “Both Leandra and Gamlen.” Cole looked from the healer over to Dorian.

“The Rutherford’s, too.”

Dorian remembered Cullen had mentioned that his family lived in Lowtown, and something icy settled in the pit of his stomach. “Anders, you didn’t mention that the templars had taken their entire families into custody,” he mumbled. “How long… ?”

“The templars took their families first,” Cole explained, his voice quivering. “To draw them out.” The boy looked regretful, and Merrill leaned over to pull him into a hug. “There were too many of them. I couldn’t protect them. They got hurt.”

“You came back and told me, Cole,” Anders replied. “That is all that we can ask of you.” Looking to Dorian, his expression was grim. “It hasn’t been long yet. Less than twelve hours.” Glancing briefly over at Merrill, he then turned his attention back to the boy. “When we’re done here, though, can you tell Varric that we’ll meet him at the red residence? He isn’t to make a move until we get there, and--”

“Are you going to call on Fenris?” That was Merrill, and Anders shut his eyes at the mention of that name. Dorian had to wonder what the history was there, given that Merrill seemed rather unbothered about this Fenris individual, whereas Anders… well.

“Are you _sure_ that’s a good idea, Merrill?”

“Well, we need all the help we can get, right? And I think Hawke would be happy to see Fenris.”

“You do realize that we’re a party of _three mages_ at the moment.”

“And Varric!”

“Yes, and Varric, but Merrill--”

“If Hawke is involved, he won’t mind.”

“Merrill, Dorian is a _mage_ from _Minrathous_.” Those words were forcefully bit out before the elf could say anything else, and she frowned at Anders, as if he was missing the whole point. Of course, Dorian simply quirked an eyebrow at the entire exchange. While he understood that many people frowned upon those _evil magisters from Tevinter_ , even to this day, this Fenris individual was apparently on an entirely different level.

“That doesn’t change the fact that we’re going to save Hawke and everyone else,” Merrill protested, shaking her head. “Do you think he’ll be any happier if you leave him out of this?”

“I am perfectly capable of behaving myself, you know,” Dorian said quietly, glancing from one individual to the other. Merrill gave him a nod and looked back over at Anders, who sighed and folded his arms across his chest.

“It’s not _you_ I’m worried about. It’s Fenris.” A cat came up to Anders and butted its head against his knee, so he picked it up, bundling the creature into its arms. “He has a bit of a history with Minrathous mages, to put it lightly.” Dorian said nothing but lifted his eyebrows, waiting for Anders to continue. “To say that he doesn’t like your kind would be a gross understatement.”

“Shall I fetch a pitchfork then? Wave it about and pretend that I’m a warrior instead?”

“I’m not saying that you shouldn’t go, I just don’t think that--”

“He will be very upset, just like Merrill said.” All three mages looked at the boy, who wasn’t looking at any of them. Instead, Cole was rubbing a spot on the map, as if that was where this Fenris was located. “More upset than if Dorian comes. Hawke is important to him. If Hawke is hurting, he wants to be there.”

“See?” Merrill seemed delighted in her victory, while Anders simply heaved a sigh in defeat.

“Very well. Cole, I want you to tell Varric, and then... have Varric tell Fenris.” Cole nodded his head, getting to his feet, and Anders watched him disappear, barely batting an eye when he simply seemed to vanish into thin air. “If Cole tells him, he won’t wait, and then Fenris will get himself killed or worse: let the templars know we’re coming with his complete and utter lack of tact.”

The way that Anders prioritized his concerns seemed… a bit off, but Dorian had a strong feeling that Anders and Fenris did not particularly get along; he could only hope that his own interactions with him would be less disastrous than Anders was fearing they would be.

“Right then,” Anders continued, turning his attention back to the maps. He shuffled them around a bit, revealing one that appeared to be the exterior of the tower. “We’ll take route 3C to the Alienage and then route 7J up to Lowtown.

“We don’t know if the route that Hawke and the others took has been compromised, so it’s best that we not follow in their tracks.”

Merrill frowned a little at that, folding her hands into her lap. “That route will take longer though. Two days, at least.”

“I know that time is of the essence, but we won’t be much help if we’re all dead.”

“If it’s time you’re worried about, I could help out with that,” Dorian interjected, drawing the attention of both healer and elf to him. A part of him wondered if this was a good idea, offering up this part of himself, especially when it’d left him a magicless wreck for Maker knew how long, but this was… this was important. Dorian would do this for Hawke and the others who risked their own lives to save his own, and he would do this for Cullen. “I’m actually a bit of an expert on time magic.

“You could say that it was how I managed to survive my trip to Kirkwall. All I have to do is weave a haste spell around us, and we’ll be able to travel a great deal faster.”

“But Dorian, you almost got yourself killed,” Merrill protested, “We can’t have you doing that.”

“If it helps us get to our friends sooner, than it would be foolish of me to not use my abilities to the fullest.” Dorian carefully brought the maps closer to himself, taking a look at the scale marked on it and the amount of ground that they would have to cover. Prior to his disastrous trip to Kirkwall, Dorian had never used his haste spell for more than a few seconds, so he’d never known how far and how hard he could push.

Now he did.

“I’ll need some lyrium though, if you’ve any to spare.” Holding up his thumb and index fingers to show Anders the size of the vial he was speaking of, Dorian then gestured for how many vials he wanted. “That should be enough.”

“I’ll bring more than that,” the man said instead, lips pressed into a thin line. “We’ll need you battle ready in Lowtown as well.” Anders rose to his feet and walked off, presumably to fetch the lyrium. Merrill gently placed a hand on his knee, giving it a little squeeze. 

“Please don’t push yourself too hard. No one will be happy if you get hurt along the way,” she said quietly, as if she was worried that Dorian meant to prove himself by sacrificing his life in a heroically foolish death. To assure her that that wasn’t the case, he pressed his own hand against hers and shook his head.

“I intend to come back from this trip.”

Though he didn’t _like_ the circumstances that were leading up to this rescue mission of theirs, Dorian had to say that it had given him a sense of purpose like he hadn’t felt since he left Minrathous. He had direction again, and it was like having a breath of fresh air in his lungs; it gave him something incredibly important to focus his attention on, adrenaline suppressing his worries and internal conflict, his fears and inadequacies.

Would the feeling linger after they returned? (And they would return. _They would._ ) Dorian didn’t know, but he would wait until then to find out.

Anders returned with a small drawstring bag, and when he opened it, Dorian found a number of lyrium vials inside. There was also a staff in the healer’s hands, which he pressed into Dorian’s once he’d set the bag down. “It’s one of my own, but the quality is better than the ones that we have here at the sanctuary.

“Maybe we can look into having a new one crafted for you when we get back…” 

The weapon felt good in Dorian’s hands. It was well cared for and clean; the blade was sharp and the grip recently adjusted. The whole thing felt solid, and Dorian allowed some of his own magic to enter the weapon, just to see how it felt. After a moment, he nodded his head and set it beside him, right next to the bag filled with lyrium. “Thank you, Anders.”

For the next few hours, they planned their journey, mapping out the details of it and going over contingency plans. At some point, Anders produced a simple meal of bread and cheese for them while they worked, and when they finished, Dorian was the first to rise to his feet, stretching his arms above his head and popping his back. It was dark now, and the lyrium lights had winked into existence while they weren’t paying attention. “Shall we head off then? I believe we’ve a bit of a journey ahead of us…”

(He was going to be exhausted _and_ sleep deprived by the time they got to Lowtown, but this was important. Dorian would manage.)

After packing up their things and shouldering their staves and bags, they left the sanctuary, their feline companions largely ignoring their departure. When Dorian inquired as to who would care for the cats during Anders’ absence, he simply told him that one of the former Circle mages that they had rescued would check on the animals, making sure that they were fed and watered--though, the cats did, apparently, have an uncanny ability to magically come and go from the room, much like Cole. When Dorian pressed him for answers as to _how_ , Anders merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

The walk through Darktown was a quiet one with Anders leading them to yet another hatch. Dorian had learned recently from Merrill that there were many, _many_ such exits from Darktown, despite the seemingly solid exterior of the outer wall, but few people knew of them all. The one that they were leaving from today was a bit difficult to open, not having seen any use in some time, and it required a bit of magical muscle to open.

The trio were greeted by the sight of the sea and the smell of the ocean, and Dorian shut his eyes, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I seem to recall that most of this journey was _not_ along this side of the tower, yes?” he muttered.

“We’ve about half a day’s travel on this side,” Anders replied, and Dorian made a disgusted noise.

“Let’s just get this over, shall we? When the spell casts, just… _move_.” Though he didn’t look to check, Dorian assumed that the others had heard what he had said, and he started to draw the magic together to weave the haste spell. It wasn’t quite as natural as calling upon fire or ice, the nature of it far more complex, but Dorian always did like a challenge; it was one of the reasons he studied the magic that he did: it was difficult and few people could match his talent and skill with it.

Time warped in his hands, spinning outwards, and then the world seemed to slow around them. Merrill gasped in delight to his right, while Anders muttered quietly under his breath; Dorian allowed himself a smirk. “Let’s go! We haven’t all night now!”

And then they took off, the metal walkway lit up by lyrium lanterns built into the exterior of the tower.

The hours went by in a blur with the three of them caught in their own time bubble. Their path was clear of any adversaries on their way up to the Alienage, and even beyond that, they only encountered a handful of templars, scattered about the perimeter and easy enough to take out on their own without alerting anyone. By the time they reached Lowtown, the sun was rising, and Dorian was exhausted.

While he’d used fewer vials than he’d thought necessary, the haste spell was still no less draining than he remembered. Dorian was a cold, clammy, shivering mess, and when Anders offered to run a healing spell over him before they entered the level proper, he didn’t refuse, sinking onto a nearby crate and gesturing for the healer to work his magic.

It eased the worst of the tremors, and Dorian spent a moment simply holding his head in his hands as his body protested its abuse. Merrill ran her hand against his shoulder, trying to relax him, but soon enough, he was nodding his head, signifying that he was ready to go. Anders dipped his head in acknowledgment, and Dorian started to weave the haste spell again to get them through the streets.

While a part of Dorian wanted to see this Hanged Man pub, which was frequented by the group and which Merrill and Isabela had described to him in loving detail many times, it was far too public a place for them to gather, and Anders already _had_ instructed Varric to meet them at this “red residence,” whatever that meant. To Dorian’s great relief, _that_ location was actually closer to them than the pub, and he let out a shuddering breath when they arrived, allowing the spell to drop from around them.

A dwarf ushered inside them inside the dark interior of the home quickly, and after locking the door behind them, he lit a lamp to regard his visitors. As it turned out, the red residence was, indeed, red: the flooring, the walls, and even some of the furniture were painted or colored red. “You guys scared the shit out of me,” the dwarf muttered, gesturing for them to come further into the house. “Wasn’t expecting you for another two days or so.”

“We had some help,” Merrill replied, keeping an arm around one of Dorian’s and leading him toward the first surface suitable for sitting that she saw, which happened to be a rather worn (and red) couch. Dorian collapsed into it without preamble before offering the dwarf--Varric, he assumed--his hand.

“Dorian Pavus.”

“Huh, so you’re the guy that the kid was talking about,” he replied, taking the hand and giving it a warm shake. “Varric Tethras.” Varric glanced over at Anders. “I sent Elf to do some scouting. See what the situation is like.

“He should be back soon.”

“You don’t think he’s just going to start _killing_ people, is he?” Anders asked, frowning. He came to take the seat next to Dorian, while Merrill perched on the armrest.

Varric seemed to consider this for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and ambling into the kitchenette. “Tea?” he asked. “I’m not serving you guys alcohol this early in the morning.” When everyone raised their hand or nodded their head, Varric started to work on boiling some water. “Fenris said that he’d be back, and I trust him.

“Just because you think he’s going to barrel into Gamlen’s place without warning doesn’t mean he’s gonna do it, Blondie.”

“Need I remind you of the first time Hawke met Fenris?”

“Well, that was different. Kinda. There were… fewer people involved.” There was a knock at the door, and while the three mages tensed up, Varric simply smiled. “See? Told you he’d be back.”

Sure enough, when Varric disappeared back into the hall, he returned with individual named Fenris: an elven warrior with… Was that _lyrium_ etched into his skin? Fenris narrowed his eyes at the three mages seated on the couch, and Dorian could have sworn that he felt the temperature in the room drop. Varric, apparently, was doing his best to ignore the change in the atmosphere.

“Elf, this is our new friend, Dorian.” The dwarf gestured toward him with a sweep of the hand. “I told you he’d be coming along to help, right?”

“You did,” Fenris replied, and Dorian was immediately surprised by how _deep_ his voice was--though he _had_ been expecting that frosty attitude. He felt himself tense, but much to his relief, Fenris did nothing but find a seat in a chair at the tiny dining table in the kitchenette. It was as far as he could physically be from the mages while not keeping his back to them, and he leaned back in the chair, arms folded across his chest.

Perhaps he should still introduce himself? “Dorian Pavus--”

“You don’t need to tell me who you are, mage,” the elf growled. Dorian clamped his mouth shut, and he heard Anders huff in disgust beside him. He shot Merrill a look that clearly said _I told you so_ , but she merely pouted in response. Anders leaned toward Dorian to whisper in his ear: “Don’t mind him. He’s always like this. I don’t see how Hawke stands him.”

The room lapsed into uncomfortable silence, only broken when the kettle whistled. With four mugs out, Varric glanced at Fenris. “Tea?” he asked, and the elf frowned and shook his head. Varric shrugged, placed the mugs of tea and some accompaniments on a tray, and brought it over to where the others were seated on the couch. “Don’t have any milk to go with it, but hopefully, that’ll do.”

After setting it down on what counted as a coffee table, he went to lone bookshelf in the room and fished out one of the books, which was, as Dorian noticed, neatly hollowed out. Inside, Varric plucked out a folded map and smoothed it down on the table next to the tray. While it was different from the ones Anders had in Darktown, Dorian had to assume that this one was of Lowtown, though he did not recognize any of the landmarks.

“So Blondie, I think we can safely say that is your gig, so what do you have for us?” Varric asked, plucking his own mug off the tray and adding a bit of sugar to it. While he still seemed unwilling to join them, discussion of the operation had Fenris rising from his seat and dragging the chair nearer, turning it backwards and straddling it when he got close enough to hear the proceedings--though he still kept some distance between them. Anders frowned at the elf but paid him no further mind, instead focusing his attention on the map in front of him.

“Right. Here’s the plan…”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter ended up being longer than anticipated! Guess that's not a bad thing. :|a Also, magic. MAGIC! How does it work? I have no idea. /handwaves

Planning took several hours, though Dorian wasn’t sure of exactly how long things took, given that he ended up passing out when it was clear that they’d finished discussing his particular role in the operation. He woke once, later on, to find Varric and Anders discussing something while Merrill and Fenris were dozing in chairs; Cole was perched on the far end of the couch on the armrest.

When he made a move to get up, Varric waved him off and mouthed the word _sleep_ at him, and who was he to say no to that? The journey from Darktown to here had been draining, and he was more than content to continue sleeping until it was time for the operation to begin at nightfall.

By the time he rose from the cloud of sleep the second time, there was noticeably more activity in the residence than before. Anders and Varric were trying to put together a meal for the group, if the smell of food was any indication, while Merrill was setting up the table; she smiled at Dorian when she saw that he was awake but didn’t make a move to hurry him into getting off the couch. In the corner, Fenris was sharpening his sword, and Cole was missing again, presumably to keep an eye on the situation at the Amell’s residence.

Dinner was a quick affair that Dorian ended with another vial of lyrium, and he scrunched up his face as he readied himself for battle. He was in the middle of checking the lyrium pouch he kept at his hip when Cole reappeared again.

“How’s it going, kid?” Varric asked.

“Uncertainty hangs over them, heavy like a fog. They bleed and hurt, and she is cold and empty, unable to help. The betrayer is gone--gone back with the hooded one to the Circle.” Cole looks down at his hands. “I couldn’t help. Too many. There were too many.” The boy raised his eyes again and looked at Dorian. “She hopes that you’ll come. She hopes that they’ll catch you. You got away. _You got away, and no one gets away_.”

Those words sent a chill down his spine, and Dorian didn’t need to be told exactly whom Cole was referring to. Merrill was sending him worried glances, while Fenris simply frowned at him, likely trying to figure out whether or not he would be a liability in battle.

Clearing his throat quietly, Dorian adjusted the set of the staff against his back and tilted his head toward the door. “Well then, no point in disappointing our templar friends,” he said lightly and mostly succeeding in hiding the tremor that threatened to show in voice. “Shall we?”

Lowtown was chilly now that the sun had set, and the shadows cast by the lyrium lamps set Dorian’s nerves on edge. Cole vanished to meet up with them at the Amell’s, and Varric, too, seemed to disappear into the shadows. Fenris, though a warrior, was quiet enough on his feet and good enough at hiding in dark corners that Dorian thought him more of an assassin than anything else. For the three mages, he cast the haste spell once more, helping them move into position without causing a fuss.

He was sweating by the time they arrived, and his hands shook slightly as he unstoppered a vial of lyrium and downed it. Anders hit him with a healing spell, and between the two, Dorian felt a little better. The look on Anders’ face suggested that he wasn’t pleased about his current state of being, though he held his tongue for now.

“Rest for a moment while we wait for the others to arrive,” Anders whispered, and while he could protest, Dorian didn’t. He simply nodded his head and leaned against the crates that they were hiding behind. The three of them were located a short distance from the back entrance into the Amell residence, and for all the talk that had gone on about Fenris _not_ kicking down the front door to get to Hawke, that was, essentially, the plan.

“Trust me: Fenris is really good at getting your attention when he wants it,” Varric had explained, and Dorian, tired as he was, had simply accepted that without asking for an explanation.

Now that he was a little more clear of thought, he found himself wondering about it, though it was clearly too late to relate his concerns by this point--not that anyone else seemed bothered by the idea.

“Would have been nice to travel with you guys,” Varric whispered from Dorian’s right. “Don’t throw a fireball at me, alright? I’m coming over.” All three mages nodded, and then the dwarf appeared beside them, his massive crossbow slung over his shoulder. As he settled in, Varric jerked his thumb in the direction that he’d come from.

“I saw Fenris getting into position. We should be starting soon.”

It looked as if Anders wanted to ask, for the millionth time, if everyone knew their role, but when he opened his mouth and saw the determined looks on everyone’s faces, he shut his mouth as a grim smile pulled at his lips.

There was some commotion from the front of the residence, and distantly, Dorian could hear Fenris shouting, though the words were indistinct. The clang of metal on metal filled the air, and soon enough, there was also the sound of screams. They were high-pitched and filled with agony--the sort of screams that said that death was visiting the neighborhood.

The commotion was drawing the attention of the templars stationed around the back of the residence, and while they didn’t _all_ go, the numbers thinned dramatically as they went to assist their comrades in the front. And that? That was their signal.

Merrill was the first to rise from her spot behind the crates, quickly forming a rocky armor around herself. She was to be their front line, given that their only warrior was already preoccupied, and with a little smile, she looked over at the others before charging. Varric was ready with his crossbow, nailing the first templar to turn with a bolt right between his eyes, and Dorian followed up with a burst of lightning, the magic leaping between a small cluster of soldiers. Anders spared a moment to throw a barrier on the lot of them before running off to join Fenris, who could still be heard fighting on the other side. As he was running, Cole materialized at his side, and the two joined the fray together.

That was about as much attention as Dorian could spare for them. Guns out, templars were pouring out of the back door now, and while he shouted a warning at Merrill, she didn’t seem to mind that the numbers that they were facing were growing. The blows from their firearms glanced off of her armor, and Dorian could feel the bullets bouncing off of the barrier that Anders had cast. Before them, Merrill seemed to do… _something_ and then drew her hand away from herself, blood dripping from her fingertips.

“Is she--?” Dorian blinked, distractedly throwing a fireball at a pair of templars coming from their right; he erected a wall of ice to slow the approach of reinforcements coming from that direction. Varric handled another approaching templar from the left with a bolt to the chest; the dwarf spared a brief glance at the other mage and shrugged his shoulders.

“Not exactly something you wanna bring up with strangers,” Varric muttered, but as horrified as Dorian was, he was also fascinated, if only an academic level. Templars were clearly trying to drain her mana, but while the spell to form her armor started to crumble, she drew upon that _other_ reserve and with a shout she cast _something_ at the knights.

Dorian would remember their screams.

The templars fell before her, dropping their weapons and clawing at their armor, as if something was trying to tear them apart from the inside out. Though he’d never studied blood magic (never would), Dorian had a rough idea of what was happening, and he swallowed hard as one by one, they succumbed and crumpled to the ground, blood coming out of their lips, eyes, and noses.

Twitching a little, he shook his head, and Varric clapped a hand against his back before tilting his head for them to join Merrill--Merrill who had wiped out a dozen men with a single spell. Green tendrils of magic spread out from beneath her feet, moving as if alive, though Dorian didn’t try to think too hard on _what_ the magic was hungry for. It moved harmlessly past himself and Varric, and when Merrill looked at them, her eyes burned red.

To his surprise, there was a hint of vulnerability there, though the tilt of her chin was challenging--like she was _waiting_ for Dorian to say something about her use of blood magic. “You know what to do. Go,” she said, her rock armor reforming around her now that there weren’t any templars actively trying to drain her mana. “I’ll hold the line here.”

“Not alone, you won’t,” Dorian said softly. While he didn’t think that he would ever actually _approve_ of the use of blood magic, Merrill was, apparently, willing to do whatever it took to save her friends, and how could Dorian do any less? While the haste spell was too draining to maintain while fighting, he closed his eyes and murmured a spell under his breath, and when he opened his eyes again, the spirits of the templars stood docile before them. Dorian swept his hand out, and they moved through the three of them into the street, leaving him feeling a little chilled.

Varric apparently had seen plenty in his day, and he simply grunted. Merrill’s mouth had formed a small o in delight, and her lips curved into a bright smile as she watched one of the spirits cut down a templar trying to hack his way through Dorian’s wall of ice.

“They’ll help you,” he said, and Merrill nodded. If she weren’t encased in rock, Dorian had a feeling she would have hugged him. 

“Thank you,” she said. “But please! Hurry!” 

Dorian nodded his head and threw a barrier over all of them before stepping inside the residence. There were still sounds of fighting from the front of the house, and from the open front door, he could see Fenris battling, the lyrium marks on his body flaring. His armor was covered in blood, and red flecked his white hair and skin; Anders was further away, his eyes glowing an eerie blue. Cole flickered in and out of sight, shoving a knife between ribs and slitting throats without a second thought.

“Sparkler, c’mon--”

Dorian glanced at Varric, who was already moving further into the house, and he bit his tongue, not wanting to comment on that nickname. Cole had said that the families had been left in the basement and that a number of templars were station there to guard them. Instead of heading immediately there, they cleared out the first level and took out a few templars from the windows to help out in the front as well.

When they approached the stairs to the basement, there was no one posted outside the door, and Varric jiggled the doorknob, finding it locked. Muffled speech could be heard from inside, making Varric click his tongue. “That’s not a voice I recognize,” the dwarf said, and he cocked his crossbow. Dorian threw another barrier over them just as the door opened.

The templar received a bolt to the face before having the butt of the weapon jammed into his stomach. “Sparkler!”

“On it!” A winter storm filled the room, slowing the movements of everyone within, and Dorian quickly looked around. Bullets flew at them, eating away at his magical barrier, and he hissed when he felt one graze his skin, forcing him to recast the spell around them. When he didn’t see any of their friends there, he unleashed a torrent of electricity as Varric carefully picked off the knights, prioritizing anyone who looked like they were trying to drain Dorian of his magic. One of them nearly succeeded, forcing a sharp breath from him, but a moment later, the connection was severed. 

He sent a carefully aimed fireball in that direction, regardless of the fact that the man was already dead, before putting _out_ the flame with another ice spell. Beside him, Varric laughed, like he was used to seeing mages nearly set a place on fire before realizing their mistake, and Dorian couldn’t help a little grin of his own. He summoned spirits here as well, terrorizing the remaining templars that remained standing, albeit barely, and they ran screaming out of the basement, shoving their way past them.

Varric brought them down as they tried to climb over one another on the stairs as Dorian plunged the blade of his staff into the back of another, and that was that.

Adrenaline hummed through his veins as magic danced between between his fingertips. Dorian almost _wanted_ to have more templars show up, just so he could burn off the energy thrumming beneath his skin. He paced back and forth by the entrance as Varric checked the three doors in the room, his crossbow slung over across his back once more. He apparently didn’t care for two of the doors, but the last? He chuckled and worked on unlocking it, pulling the tools to do so from a pouch at his waist.

“Hey there, Chuckles.”

“Varric. You’re not exactly the cavalry I was expecting. I was thinking I’d see someone with more white hair and white tattoos.”

“Oh, you’ll hurt my feelings that way, you know. Fenris is outside doing what he does best.”

“Stealing hearts?”

“Pretty much.”

Dorian had intended to give everyone a bit of space, but with Varric speaking to Hawke, he just had to know--he had to see. When he appeared in the doorway beside the dwarf, Hawke waved at him, looking far too calm for a man who’d been captured; there was an ugly gash running down his arm, and he was sporting a black eye. Inside, there were a number of people: some faces were familiar, while others were not; Dorian counted a total of eleven captives.

Isabela was lounging against the back of the room, and she lazily raised a hand in greeting, showing off the heavy manacles linking her hands together. Barris sat against that same wall, dipping his head in acknowledgment when he saw Dorian there; his face looked a little tight--withdrawal, Dorian realized--and he was clutching his arm to his chest in a way that would suggest that it was broken. Bethany was leaning against an older woman who looked too much like the Hawke siblings to not be their mother, and the mage looked tired and pale--like the way Dorian felt when he’d had his own magic drained out of him. Close to the wall on his right, he saw a man with his arm covering his face, and Dorian heaved an internal sigh of relief: between the blond hair and the templar armor, that could only be Cullen.

The woman seated next to him narrowed her eyes at Dorian, but she made no move to say or do anything. Dorian swallowed and took a tentative step forward. “Is he--”

A loud crash came from the floor above, and Varric frowned, rushing upstairs. He hurried back down a moment later. “Things aren’t looking pretty outside,” he explained. “Much as I’d love a nice little reunion right here, we gotta get going.

“Sparkler, help me find the damn key for those manacles?” Dorian hurried to help Varric do so before another crash could be heard outside. Yanking a ring of keys off of the belt of one of the templars, he shoved it Varric’s hand.

“I’m going to help shore up the defenses,” he said. Before he left, Dorian also pulled out a few vials of lyrium. “For Bethany.” Varric took them carefully and then nodded.

“We’ll be out soon. Just gimme a couple of minutes.”

Dorian took one last look at the people in the room, catching Hawke’s eye for a moment, and then he climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time. From the windows, he could see that Fenris was visibly tiring now, and the glow that had been in Anders’ eyes before had faded, though Dorian didn’t pretend to know what that meant. The mage was focusing on healing spells instead of offensive ones now, and Cole stuck close to him, trying to take out anyone who dared to threaten him.

Wanting to check on Merrill first before heading out into the fray, Dorian summoned a few spirits to help his friends, though he could have sworn that Cole jerked his head to look his way when he did so. He didn’t linger though, rushing to the back of the house. The spirits that he had called upon to aid Merrill had long since fallen, and she was panting heavily as she worked to stem the flow of enemies that were trying to get close enough to strike her.

Blood dripped constantly from her fingertips now, and she offered Dorian a pained smile before she cast another spell, sending another group of templars to their knees. He stayed here at her side until he heard footsteps coming up from behind them--a whole lot of them.

There was the group that they’d come to save. Hawke stood at the fore, despite the horrid injury to his arm, and beside him was Isabela, who didn’t look too bad for all that she’d been through. Hawke had grabbed one of the templar’s swords, while Isabela had one strapped to her back; two lyrium revolvers were in her hands, and she grinned when she saw Dorian looking. Behind them, Bethany looked like she had a little more color in her cheeks, but he doubted that she would be much help in a fight. Barris had also picked up a sword, but from what he could remember and what he could see, it was his sword arm that had been broken.

And Cullen.

His lip had been split, and like Hawke, Cullen was sporting a black eye. Dorian could see no visible wounds, but from the pained way that he shuffled and leaned heavily against the man--one of the other Rutherford’s, perhaps?--at his side, he could only assume that something had been broken--possibly _several_ things. His face was pale and ashen, and it seemed that even the short journey up the stairs had caused a sweat to break out across his forehead.

Dorian swallowed hard and forced himself to turn away. He wanted to do nothing more than sweep the man into his embrace--to hold him and comfort him, but this wasn’t the time or place. They’d _all_ be dead if they didn’t get out of here.

“Sparkler, Daisy. You take everyone and head to the red residence and lie low until the rest of us get there,” Varric said from the back of the group. “I’m going to help the guys up front get outta here.” The dwarf was digging through his pack, and when he pulled his hand out, there were a number of brightly colored… objects in his hands. Varric grinned. “Explosives,” he said simply when he caught Dorian looking.

“Oh, not going to leave any of the fun for us, Varric?” Hawke asked, and Dorian was amazed by how the man seemed to take everything in stride--like all of this was some big joke.

“You’ve got enough trouble on your hands, Chuckles. You don’t need to be adding this to your list.” Varric shrugged, like this was all normal. Maybe it _was_ normal for these people. “Now get out of here.”

“I’ll keep a barrier around us all,” Dorian said. He then looked at Isabela. “If you could take out anyone trying to pick off members of our group?”

“Aww, sweetie, you don’t even have to ask. I owe them a good time for all that they’ve put me through,” she replied with a wink, and Merrill couldn’t help but giggle a little at that. Dorian managed a small smile and took in their group. Given how poorly some of them were doing, using the haste spell wouldn’t do much good: they simply couldn’t _move_ fast enough to make the effort worth it. “Merrill and I will take up the rear, if you’d like, Dorian?

“You and Hawke can scope out any trouble out front.”

“You just want to get a good view of Dorian’s ass, don’t you?” Hawke asked, even as he started out the door. Isabela laughed but didn’t refute the comment, and from the other side of the house, there was a loud _boom_ , which had the group piling out of the door in a hurry.

Thankfully, the street was clear for the time being, dead bodies aside, and they were able to get across safely, albeit very slowly. As they disappeared into an alleyway, he heard a gunshot, and when Dorian looked over his shoulder, Isabela was standing there, the muzzle of one revolver smoking in her hand.

“No need to worry. Just one of them. Looked like he was trying to escape the fire fight up front,” Isabela explained. There was another explosion--this time farther, and Dorian had to wonder if that’s what Varric had meant by helping the others get out of here. Was blowing up parts of Lowtown really the best idea? Not that Dorian was particularly worried about collateral damage at this point…

The journey from the Amell’s home to the red residence took a lot longer than the reverse journey had, though Dorian thanked the Maker that it was a relatively quiet trip--even if Gamlen never stopped complaining about having to abandon the place. It seemed as if most of the templars that had been lurking around Lowtown had gone to the Amell residence when trouble had started, leaving the streets empty of their presence now.

Still, they stuck to the alleyways, hugging walls and hiding in the shadows, and the group inched along in the dark. Once or twice, Isabela would disappear, telling them to sit tight, and when she returned, her sword would be glinting with fresh blood. Her confident smile assured everyone that all was well, though, and they would continue their slow journey to the safe house.

At one point, they spotted a templar with a red hood riding past on a lyrium bike, the engine loud in the empty streets, but whoever that was rode past with their entourage of templars without even looking in their direction. Parts of Lowtown were on fire, the black smoke rising into the night sky to mark their locations. Dorian would stop and look every now and then, and he prayed that Varric and the others were unharmed.

The sky was just beginning to lighten in hue when they finally arrived at the red residence, and there was not a templar in sight. On the other side of Lowtown, fires were still burning, presumably from Varric’s explosives. Merrill fished in her pocket for the key, but instead, Varric opened the door. “About time you guys got here. Thought we were going to have to organize a rescue party...”

The dwarf looked tired and worn, and there was a bit of soot on his nose. That didn’t seem to matter though, as Dorian felt his heart warm at the thought that Varric--and, surely, the others--had made it back to the safe house in one piece. Isabela made one final sweep of the area, just to make sure no one had tailed them back to the red residence, and then the door shut behind them.

In the living area, Fenris was passed out in a chair at the table--asleep, not unconscious, from the looks of it, and Anders was moving about trying to make enough room for everyone to be treated. Bethany and Cullen both ended up on the couch, while Hawke took a seat close to Fenris; Merrill ended up in much the same position, falling asleep at the dining table soon after. Barris had taken a seat in one corner in the living area, and Isabela had taken the one opposite of him. Somehow, somewhere, she’d already found some liquor to drink.

Mia--Dorian had started to learn everyone’s names on the trip back to the safe house--went to help Olivia, the Circle mage, and Varric dig out extra linens for everyone. Branson, Rosalie, and Leandra were trying to put together a meal of some sort in the kitchenette, and Gamlen was attempting to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, lest Leandra talk him into actually doing some work. Still, it was better that he stay out of the way instead of getting underfoot…

Dorian wanted so very much to join the others in napping or resting, but there was something he had to do first. With a sigh, he put his staff aside in the living area and went to the knapsack that he’d left here before they had set off. Inside, he dug out two of Cullen’s tea bags and joined the others already in the kitchenette. They already had some water boiling, so he simply filled up two mugs once it had heated up and plopped the tea bags in there.

That done, he approached Barris, explaining the purpose of the tea, and the man gratefully took the mug. Dorian then came over to Cullen, gently pressing a hand to his shoulder when he didn’t open his eyes at the sound of his approach. “I’ve your tea,” he said quietly, and at that, Cullen cracked open an eye and gave Dorian a tired smile.

Sad though it might seem, it was the most beautiful thing Dorian had ever seen.

“Thank you,” Cullen said, and Dorian smiled in return.

“You’re welcome.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I'll admit I was rather stressed about getting this chapter out in time, but! This chapter is early because... /drumroll
> 
> I will be traveling to the other side of the planet for vacation tomorrow! Yay! :) Updates will resume in November after I get back and defeat the evil jet lag monster. I'll be back in a few weeks! Take care, everyone. ♥

In the relative safety and comfort of the safe house, Cullen thought about his parents, now that the worst of the pain from his withdrawal and injuries had been eased, though his ribcage still felt sore and tender and his steps were not as steady as they could be. He had his tea, and Anders had done a bang-up job fixing him; coupling that with a few potions that Varric had saved up, everything seemed to have righted itself--though Anders did warn him against doing anything _too_ strenuous right now. 

About two days ago, Hawke, Varric, and Cole had left with all of Hawke’s family, along with the Circle mage, and yesterday, Merrill and Isabella had departed with Cullen’s siblings and Barris, whom Cullen promised he would see again in a few day’s time. Now, only Dorian and Anders were left in Lowtown with him.

Physically speaking, Cullen felt that he was ready to go, but _Dorian_ had insisted that he stay a little longer, much to Anders’ chagrin. Cullen had argued about needing to get back to Darktown for his tea, especially since Barris left with half the supply that Dorian had brought, but the mage had insisted, quite vehemently, that they stay _just_ a little longer.

“It’s not your body that I worry about,” Dorian had said, concern clear in those grey eyes of his. “After all that you went through, I think it best if you got a little more rest. I would know. Besides, there’s still something that I need to do here.”

“But the others--” he had tried to protest, and the man had simply shook his head.

“I don’t hold enough sway over the rest of them. I do, however, with you.” Dorian had taken his hand then, giving it a little squeeze, and Cullen had felt his heart get stuck in his throat. “After everything you’ve been through here…”

“It wasn’t as bad as what you had to suffer. It was just a few days.”

“You lost your parents, Cullen.” His voice would always be so soft then, barely above a whisper and so heartfelt that it made Cullen’s chest _ache_.

It was the argument that Dorian turned back to on a number of occasions, and Cullen did have to concede that point, time and time again. There was no blame in those words, though he often felt his thoughts drift in that direction. Surely there was something _else_ he could have done.

This was to be like any other run to the Circle, as far as everyone was concerned. They had one mage, a woman by the name of Olivia, to sneak out of the Gallows, and Barris had determined that he, too, would leave the ranks of the templars. Cole had vouched for them, for their genuine desires to be free of the Circle, but as they had been fleeing the scene, disappearing in a haze of smoke toward the outer edge of the level, another templar appeared, begging for passage with them.

The man, one _Ser Varnell_ , lacked both sword and gun, and he had looked so afraid, so terrified. On his hands and knees, Varnell had begged Hawke to let him come along, and Hawke had let him; they had all let him, falling prey to those tears on the man’s face and the smear of dried blood on his armor.

Only Cole seemed hesitant to accept the man, but given the need to _leave_ the Circle, they pressed onward, including Varnell into the fold for the time being.

(According to Varnell, he’d killed one of his brothers in arms during the fray. The man had been about to strike down a mage, and Varnell had, supposedly, stepped in to aid her, felling the other templar in the process.)

Though people were still tense about Varnell’s sudden appearance, Olivia stated that she’d never had any trouble with the man, and Cole, who still seemed wary about him, did not raise up any immediate red flags. That was enough to not have them kick him out immediately, and it was a bit late to be trying to stop him from knowing about their presence and plans.

It was only when they set up camp that evening that things went astray.

The man had helped with cooking supper and chatted amiably with everyone in the company. They’d smiled and laughed together, and when they tucked in for the evening, Varnell had volunteered to take first watch with Cullen. It was, as he’d described it, a time for him to learn about what life would be like outside the Circle.

A few hours into their watch, Varnell had gotten up to relieve himself, promising to be back shortly. Cullen had thought nothing of it, after conversing with him and getting to know the man better, and waved him off. The minutes continued to tick by, and Cullen eventually started to worry that something had happened to Varnell. Though he got up to search for him, rousing Hawke in the process, they found no one, and cold dread set into the party at that moment. It became imperative to find and catch him.

But they wouldn’t be able to.

Varnell had rushed toward Lowtown at full speed to announce the group’s on-coming arrival--and his fellow templars were eagerly awaiting the news, meeting him along the way to Lowtown. This had all been a trap from the start. By the time they were alerted to his disappearance, Varnell had huge head start, and though Cole attempted to give chase, he was met with gunfire and swords--too much for even him to overcome.

And so, when they approached Lowtown, they found themselves with very few options: in front of them stood templars, ready to take them into custody, and behind them only lay a path back to the Circle. So? They fought, though the numbers were stacked heavily against them. Wave after wave of templars came against them, with their strength failing more and more with each new attack.

Then Meredith Stannard appeared. Beside her stood Varnell.

With her red hood, she was easy to spot, even from the middle of the fray, and her voice carried, loud and clear, despite the clash of metal and the bang of firearms going off. “Cease this foolishness at once,” she had said, authority all but dripping from her voice. “I command you to put down your arms, lest you want death to befall your families.”

The fighting continued, and she held up a single finger. “That is one life taken,” she stated. “Do you dare continue this?”

“You lie!” Hawke had shouted, and though there was still defiance in his eyes, Cullen could see the worry there as well. Slowly, they edged away as a group, away from the templars, even though there was nowhere for them to run. Just barely out of sight, they frantically tried to come up with another plan, but then Meredith’s voice cut across the empty space once more.

“Two lives now. Surrender yourselves, or this continues.”

There was a sound from where the templars stood: something heavy hitting the ground and then, a moment later, something else joined it.

“Do I add a third?” Meredith had asked, and that was it. That was enough.

Bethany had been the first to lay down her weapon and present herself before the templars, and there was a little gasp and then a sob--a sound that had Hawke quickly following after her. Cullen watched as he went stock still, grit his teeth, and then toss gun and sword onto the ground. The rest of them looked at each other, but they followed the siblings back into the open when Hawke beckoned them over, a pained look in his eyes.

And that was how Cullen was reunited with his parents: they were dead on the ground, fresh blood staining their collars where their throats had been slit. Before them, there was another woman, hands chained, and Varnell had a bloody blade pressed against the column of her throat, threatening more death.

The group had then gone silently, allowing themselves to be stuffed into the Amell residence for keeping as the templars awaited the eventual coming of the remainder of the group, for surely a rescue effort would be launched. This was what Meredith wanted: she wanted to eliminate this group that was threatening her hold over the tower, that had put her and her templars to shame over and over again.

And she wanted her Minrathous mage back.

As adrenaline drained out of him, his body came to collect its dues, and Cullen had drifted, half conscious from the pain from his injuries and from his lyrium withdrawal. Even now, the rescue was a half-forgotten memory, and his recollections had been patchy up until the next morning when he’d woken up to Dorian trying to cover him with another blanket.

Given that he was doing better now, at least physically, Dorian had no need to fetch him blankets or anything else, but the mage still gravitated toward him, keeping him company, even if they shared no words. Anders was most often at the dining table, preparing some more potions and vials of lyrium for their journey back to Darktown, though he did speak with Dorian on occasion, checking with him as to whether or not Cullen was ready to be moved.

The streets were, after all, once again thick with templars, and it was likely only a matter of time before they were caught.

When Dorian prepared his tea for him that afternoon, Cullen caught his wrist, and Dorian had looked at him. From what bits and pieces Cullen could recall, the man had had a fire within him when he’d rescued Cullen the other day, but that spirit was fading, giving way to the melancholy that Cullen had seen in Darktown. Was that his fault? Or was there something else at play here? “Let’s leave tonight,” he said, and Dorian looked down at the ground, nodding his head. “We can’t stay here forever, Dorian.”

“I know that.”

“Then… you’re okay with us leaving?” Cullen asked, genuinely surprised that Dorian wasn’t putting up more of a fight. At that, the mage just shrugged his shoulders and settled close to Cullen, leaning just a little into his space and forming a warm line against Cullen’s side. It felt nice--nicer than he wanted to admit, and with some care, Cullen settled his arm around Dorian’s shoulders; the man didn’t protest the touch.

The tea, he decided, tasted better whenever Dorian was the one who prepared it for him.

“I had hoped that we could… recover the bodies of your parents and give them a proper burial,” Dorian finally answered, only briefly meeting Cullen’s gaze. He wrung his hands and sighed quietly. “Against the better advice of the others, I’d gone out a few times to try and find them--” Cullen opened his mouth to protest, and Dorian shut him down with a look. “I used a haste spell, alright? No one would have caught me.” A pause. “Probably.” His lips twitched into a frown, and then he looked downcast again. “I wasn’t able to find them.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Dorian huffed a laugh and shook his head. “I know I didn’t, but it felt like the right thing to do.”

The fingers around Dorian’s shoulder tightened, and Cullen looked at the man at his side, really looked at him. “Dorian…”

The mage regarded him with a kind expression, a single eyebrow artfully arched.

The lighting and decor in the red residence was poor, but that didn’t seem to take away from Dorian’s beauty, though he was only dressed in simple, colorless garb. His hair was loosely braided, and his beard was neatly trimmed. There was color in his cheeks that Cullen hadn’t seen since the last few days of the man’s stay at the Gallows, and while they were dimmer than a few days before, Dorian had a brightness in his gaze that captivated Cullen. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss the man.

Dorian Pavus was strikingly beautiful, and with the way that he acted, maybe his feelings were not so one-sided after all. Cullen wouldn’t dare presume, not even when Dorian’s gaze flickered away as if shy, but he wondered what would happen if he asked, if he tried to take this another step forward. A part of him knew that this wasn’t the best place or time to be confessing one’s feelings, but--

A fist banged on the front door, and from the kitchenette, Anders muttered a curse. Dorian rose quickly and moved to the window, peering carefully between the blinds; when he turned back around, his face was pale. “Get your things,” he hissed, and Cullen was getting to his feet, grunting a little with effort; Anders was shoving vials into a bag, while Dorian grabbed their staves. Again, someone pounded on the entrance, and this time it was accompanied by a shout for them to open the damn door.

“Just a minute,” Dorian called, as he shouldered his knapsack. He then looked over at Anders and Cullen who were both ready to go, their meager belongings stored in their respective bags. Dorian glanced at the front door as they met in the hall and whispered, “We’ve tarried too long.”

“Do you feel well enough to run us back down to Darktown?” Anders asked, and Dorian nodded his head.

“Even if I didn’t, I would do my damn best to try.”

Cullen looked from one mage to the other. He had no weapons or armor, and he definitely didn’t have any magical abilities. “So what do you want me to do?”

Dorian looked over at him, a little of the worry in his brow relaxing as he did so. “Just keep up. That’s all that I ask.”

The mage then looked back over at Anders, who nodded and cast a barrier spell over them. Anders then stepped toward the door, where the banging was getting angrier by the minute, while Dorian hung back, spinning magic within his hands. Cullen watched as the spell seemed to expand, forming a bubble around them.

“Now!” Dorian shouted, as the spell seemed to burst. Anders blew the door open and then quickly followed up with a fireball, clearing out the templars standing immediately outside before dashing out into the street. That much noise was bound to draw more templars to the area, especially given how many of them were wandering the level now, so Cullen understood the importance of getting out of here _now_.

Dorian was next out the door, and Cullen was quick on his heels. He’d never seen this sort of magic at play before, so while he knew it was important to _get out of there_ , Cullen couldn’t help the soft sound of amazement that slipped out of his mouth as they ran outside. There were templars falling in slow motion all around them, and in the distance, he could see more of them running their way, just as slowly.

“I did tell you I’m a mage of immeasurable talent, did I not?” Dorian quipped from ahead of him. Cullen grinned and nodded his head.

“I think you did.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, I'm back. o/ This took me longer than I had been hoping, but it's been... rough in more ways than one since coming back from vacation. Fingers crossed that I can properly get back in the writing groove soon. Thanks for being patient with me! ♥ (I know I have a few comments to get to in my inbox--and thank you for that!--but I'm going to have to get to them another night. I am wiped right now. DX)
> 
> Anyway, here's this thing here. Hope it's alright. :)

Darktown seemed to grow more crowded with each passing day.

It was good to see his siblings on a regular basis again, yes, but Cullen’s heart still ached, knowing that their being here was a constant reminder of the parents that they had lost in Lowtown about a week prior. Varric, Isabela, and Fenris had also taken leave of their residences higher in the tower, and Cullen couldn’t help but notice that even Merrill wasn’t returning to the Alienage.

“Oh, I tried, you know,” Merrill had told him when he’d asked the other day. “But the templars are there now as well.” She had laughed and shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I think we really upset Stannard this time.”

Hawke had guffawed when he heard her comment, and that was apparently the only sign that Cullen needed to know how much of an understatement Merrill had made.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of an occupation as extensive as this in decades,” Barris had said when Cullen had pulled him aside to talk one day. The man was still residing in Anders’ clinic--not because he was still so injured that he needed the care, but Hawke had yet to find a place for him to stay. This hadn’t bothered Barris, and Cullen had taken a seat next to him on his cot when he had come to visit.

“Given the number of templars she’s moved just to hold Lowtown and the Alienage, I can’t imagine that the upper levels have much templar support,” Barris had continued, shaking his head. “Stannard forgets the purpose of the organization she leads, and I can’t believe that the Knight Commander lets her do as she pleases.”

“At this point, I doubt he cares,” Cullen had replied, his hands twisting around one another. “She holds all the power except in name only.” He then huffed out a sigh. “Think she’ll come after Darktown?”

Barris looked at him. “I wouldn’t put it past her. That’s her pride that you all have hurt, and I think she’d chase you all into the Deep Roads to exact revenge.”

The arrival and stay of a permanent templar presence was forcing a rather large number of refugees into Darktown. Cullen had always known that when mages fled the the Circle that most would escape to and stay in the lower levels, but he hadn’t realized that there were so many who had slipped between their fingers. He wondered, then, as to how many were former Circle mages and how many were apostates.

Seeing the world as he did now, Cullen could not blame them for running though.

“It’s not just them, you know,” Bethany had explained with a smile on her lips. Ander’s mage sanctuary had its doors open as a family crowded inside after thanking Bethany for taking them in. “It’s their parents and significant others. It’s their children and families.” She sealed the entrance again, the greenish light fading from her hands and leaving the area around them dark again. “Anyone who has ever supported a mage is probably worried about their safety now.”

Dorian was rather quiet about the matter.

While he wasn’t quite as despondent as he had been prior to Cullen leaving with Hawke, he had become quieter since their return to Darktown. The mage would often disappear for an entire day, leaving the hut before Cullen rose and returning only when it was time to sleep. His smiles, while not brittle, were fleeting, and Dorian, Cullen felt, had little to say to him, often only greeting him once and then bidding him good night. When Cullen had called him out on it, Dorian had simply given him a lopsided smile, apologized, and said that he had a lot on his mind.

Was it strange that despite the growing number of people here that he felt lonelier?

Eleven days had passed since Cullen had returned to Darktown when Hawke called a meeting of their group at his residence. For all the time he’d spent in this place thus far, he had never actually gone there to visit, and Cullen was quietly impressed with the home that the man had carved out of one of the former watchtowers. 

While the space was small, Hawke--well, Bethany, probably--had decorated the old watchtower with a number of richly colored rugs and filled the walls with bookshelves. Hawke had jokingly quipped that they were filled with nothing but smutty literature, but when Cullen had looked around (purely out of curiosity, of course), he’d found nothing of the sort: there were histories and novels about long forgotten battles, and there was, actually, a disturbingly large section about dragons spanning from the first floor through the second.

There was even a section about magic three floors up, and it was here where he found Dorian, seated in a high-backed chair with a book open in his elegant hands. Caught up in his reading, the mage hadn’t noticed his entrance, and Cullen was unsure of whether or not he should disturb him. Before he could make a decision though, Dorian lifted his gaze; a brief look of surprise settled into one of wry amusement.

“Did Hawke tell you to come and fetch me for the meeting?” he asked quietly, slipping the ribbon attached to the spine between the pages of the book and then shutting it. Dorian rose to his feet and replaced the tome on the shelf. “I would have thought the start would be louder: I was half expecting Hawke to be yelling and demanding more alcohol. No wonder I missed--”

“Dorian.” The man turned and regarded him with an arched brow. “The meeting hasn’t started yet. I was just looking for some way to kill some time. You needn’t go for my sake.” Cullen laughed softly and rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “I’m happy to see you, actually.” 

“You see me every day, Cullen.” That response was too quick, and while there was still an easy smile on Dorian’s face, there was a stiffness in his body language that hadn’t been there when he’d been reading. It made Cullen’s brow creased: was this what it was going to be like from now on? “Surely there’s nothing to miss?”

Down below, Cullen could hear the tell-tale signs that more people were arriving--the sound of chatter and laughter, of the front door being opened and closed, and of furniture being moved around. Dorian was looking at the stairwell like an escape route now, his smile not quite plastic but getting there. Cullen sighed and dropped his hands to his sides. 

“I suppose not,” he said simply and then gestured towards the stairs, which Dorian took to gratefully; Cullen lingered a little longer and then followed suit. Down to the ground floor, Hawke greeted them--and a handful of stragglers coming from behind them--with a bright smile.

“Now that we’re all here--” And everyone really was. The first floor of the old watchtower was packed. While Cullen knew the core members of Hawke’s group, there were a number of faces that he wasn’t familiar with. Were they new recruits, or was the man’s network simply that large? “--let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Most people were nursing liquor of some sort, though it didn’t look like anyone was wasted--nowhere near it, actually. For all the laughter in the room, Cullen could sense a certain level of seriousness that didn’t usually happen with Hawke’s gatherings. Each individual who was here was concerned about the actions that the templars had taken recently--and for good reason.

“Everyone is telling us that Stannard wants to pay us a visit in Darktown,” Hawke started, and out of the corner of Cullen’s eye, he saw Dorian shift uncomfortably. “And I know you all have been greeting our new friends.

“It’s getting pretty crowded down here, and I hope you’re all taking regular showers. Wouldn’t want to scare away our guests.”

“Just give ‘em more booze! They won’t know the difference!” Isabela called from her spot by what Cullen believed to be the kitchen. A cheer erupted, and Hawke laughed along before raising up his arms to calm everyone back down.

“While I have nothing at all against more booze for everyone, I am concerned about the templars making an actual attempt to breach the level.” That seemed to sober everyone up pretty quickly. “We’re a small group of people, and while I know none of us here in Darktown want those damn templars joining us for tea, we can’t forget that there’s a good portion of the population who just don’t give a damn about what happens to the refugees.

“They will, however, start to care if we become completely cut off from supplies from above.

“So my question is whether or not we take the fight to them or let them come to us.” Hawke gestured toward Barris. “Our friend Barris tells me that the upper levels should be fairly free of templars right now, given the concentration of them here, and if we draw them away from Darktown, some sense of normality should return to the level.”

Anders, who was seated close to where Hawke was standing opened his mouth, and Hawke sighed, cutting him off. “And no, Anders, we are _not_ going to blow up the Chantry--not even a tiny bit of it.”

The mage shut his mouth then and folded his arms across his chest; Cullen couldn’t help but be a little amused by how _dejected_ the man looked, and nearby, he heard Fenris cough quietly, a smirk hidden behind his hand. Hawke continued on as if he hadn’t noticed either individual. “As easy as that solution would be, unfortunately, we would probably all die when the Chantry inevitably fell onto the rest of the tower.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t fancy myself very attractive when dead and covered in rubble.”

“I think we should bring the fight to them.” All eyes turned to Bethany, who kept her focus trained on her brother. “We have people fleeing here for safety, so if we simply wait, then we only invite more trouble when Stannard gets here.”

“But if we disrupt the lives of those higher in the tower, we won’t win their favor either,” Barris said, and Cullen had to nod in agreement to that. As important as it was to get the templars away from Darktown, making enemies of the rest of the tower wasn’t going to do anyone any favors in the future either.

Swallowing, Cullen cleared his throat. “How about the Circle?” He felt all eyes turn onto him now, and his pulse picked up a notch. “There are no civilians living there--only the mages and templars.

“We could maybe even pick up some more allies from the Gallows.” Cullen felt like at least _some_ of the mages would join their cause, and maybe a few of the templars would assist them as well--though that was a much taller order. “And if it’s the templar order that we need to get the attention of, then I think it makes sense to go for their stronghold.

“Otherwise, we may draw the ire of the tower guard as well.”

“You know, you could probably just _ask_ Aveline if she would support your cause,” Varric said from his spot at the table. He had a pen in his hand and meeting notes scribbled all over the paper in front of him. “She likes order, but she’s not going to like hearing about civilians getting killed in the mix of things.

“She might be willing to turn a blind eye at least.”

The idea of getting justice for his parents had Cullen nodding his head in agreement with Varric’s words. Hawke looked around the room, as if reading the mood of everyone there. “So we’re voting to take over templar headquarters. Is that it?”

There was the general sound of assent, and most individuals in the room seemed to be nodding their heads. Cullen glanced over at Dorian, only to find the man looking displeased about the situation. When the mage caught him looking, Cullen had to fight down the urge to avert his eyes; there wasn’t any reason to pretend that he hadn’t been looking, hoping to get a read on what Dorian thought of this whole situation.

Discussion regarding _how_ to take over the Circle and how to lure the templars away from Darktown had started now, but Cullen’s attention was fully taken by Dorian, who had turned away from him and quietly slipped out the front door. Suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter if plans were still being made for this upcoming operation: Cullen needed to follow Dorian.

When he hurried out of the watchtower, he found the mage standing nearby, arms folded tightly around himself. Dorian glanced over at him and heaved a sigh. “Came to chat with me some more?” he asked, attempting to inject humor into his voice and failing rather miserably. “I would have thought that you’d stay in the meeting. I’m sure that your opinion would be greatly valued, given that you’re a former templar.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“You’re always worried about me.”

“Dorian, you seemed to be doing better when you came to rescue us, but since then…”

That seemed to force a nervous laugh from the mage, and Dorian started to walk away from Hawke’s home, booted feet kicking up dust. “Must you pick at these things, Cullen?” he asked quietly, shooting a wry smile over his shoulder. When he just followed, Dorian shook his head and muttered dryly, “How very persistent of you.”

“Am I bothering you? If my presence is a nuisance--”

“Cullen, I’ve caused so many people so many problems since I got here.” Dorian had stopped walking now, shoulders raised and hands clenched at his sides. “And I _continue_ to cause problems by _remaining_ here.” He turned to look at Cullen now, his brow creased and lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know how to fix those problems. I tried to help by traveling to Lowtown, but I just made it worse.

“I can’t make your parents come back, and all of those people who had to leave the other levels because of the templars chasing me here… ? How am I supposed to help? Now more people are going to get hurt because of my presence here with this operation of theirs.” Dorian shook his head. “What am I supposed to say to them? What am I supposed to _do_ for them?

“Stannard is upset about losing her Minrathous mage. I should have just stayed in the Core.” Dorian’s shoulders took on a dejected curve now, and Cullen didn’t know what to say. He was watching Dorian flay himself alive with his words, and it… it _hurt_. “I am sure that she’s also displeased that Hawke and his group are causing problems as well, but this is all a first, isn’t it? What’s changed other than my appearance here?”

 _This is my doing_ , is what Cullen heard loud and clear, though Dorian didn’t actually say those words aloud.

“So, this is what’s been on your mind, is it? This is why you’ve been avoiding me?”

Dorian didn’t answer, and he took that as an answer in the affirmative. “If you really think it’s your fault, then be part of the solution,” he finally said, his voice quiet and gentle. Cullen closed the last bit of distance between them and came to a stop at Dorian’s side. “I don’t think it is though.” As things stand, Dorian was simply the excuse for Stannard to do this; she likely would have pursued this route eventually, with or without Dorian’s presence.

“And I’m still glad that I got to meet you.”

“But your parents--”

“Would not put the blame on your shoulders, Dorian. I will never forgive Stannard for what she did to my family, but you...” He pressed a hand against the man’s shoulder. “You cannot take the blame for something beyond your control, and you... “ Cullen swallowed hard and then allowed a small, wry smile to appear on his lips. “You came for us.”

“Cullen, I--”

He leaned in then, silencing Dorian with a soft kiss. It was an impulsive move on his part, and internally, he cursed himself for doing that, for acting without thinking. This wasn’t appropriate, not with everything that was going on and all that had happened to the both of them, and yet--

It felt good and… and _right_.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen said as he pulled away, even as regret filled him--regret for imposing on Dorian and regret for having to end the kiss. “I shouldn’t have done that. That was inappropriate of me. I’ll just go--”

Dorian’s hand caught against his own as he tried to move away, and before he could say anything, Dorian pulled him back and pressed a kiss of his own against Cullen’s lips. It was a shy, sweet thing--completely different from how he expected the mage to kiss--but it was so _nice_ that Cullen couldn’t help the quiet sound of disappointment when they broke apart.

(The kiss had been far too short, as far as Cullen was concerned.)

Though he still seemed as quiet and anxious as before, Dorian allowed Cullen to continue holding him: one hand resting gently against his waist and the other in the small of his back. Behind them, in the direction of Hawke’s home, came the sound of something getting smashed, followed by raucous laughter. That didn’t seem to fit in line with _planning_ for something, but then again, this _was_ Hawke.

“Do you think they need us?” he asked, and beside him, Dorian sighed before allowing a crooked smile to appear on his face.

“Probably. Go on then. Save them from themselves. Ser Barris will need your assistance to keep the conversation sane.” The mage pulled away then to wrap his arms around himself again. When he spotted the worried look back on Cullen’s face, Dorian laughed softly. “I’m not going anywhere, and I promise I won’t do anything stupid. Now go.

“I just... need a minute.” The smile that Dorian gave him now seemed genuine enough, so Cullen nodded his head and walked back toward the old watchtower. As he placed his hand on the door handle, he took one more look at Dorian who made a shooing motion at him. That brought a grin to his face, and he went back inside feeling better than he had when he’d stepped out.

When Dorian came back in some time later, he quietly moved through the rowdy crowd to stand beside Cullen. They weren’t touching, but to have Dorian at his side, he thought, was good enough for now.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a week! First Tumblr decided to rid itself of all its pesky users with its new policy, and then HOW ABOUT THAT TEASER TRAILER, EH?
> 
> Also, thank you all again for your patience. I've still been struggling a lot with real world stuff recently, which hasn't been particularly conducive to writing. Anyway! That is all. Hope you all enjoy. ♥

Despite the fact that he was was wearing an expression of rapt attention, Dorian barely retained anything from the remainder of the meeting. This was one of those talents that he had picked up in Minrathous and perfected, though he wasn’t entirely sure that it worked in his favor now. This was not, after all, a boring, pointless visit to the Magisterium. No, Dorian was, after all that he’d been through, of the mind that Kirkwall was simply _incapable_ of being boring.

His lips still tingled from the two kisses that he’d shared with Cullen, and Dorian’s thoughts were a swirling mess inside his skull. He seemed to recall Cullen volunteering alongside Barris to teach bladework to volunteers who decided to fight with them and to help the mages learn how to battle templars. 

This had then led to a discussion about creating a force of battle mages that Dorian offered little input to, though at some point he volunteered--did he really?--to take charge of that project. Bethany was cheerfully saying something about how he was the only _true_ battle mage here, given that he was properly trained as one in Minrathous, but Dorian had just given her a dazed smile and agreed to come up with a training regimen for the mages.

In hindsight, he wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but even as he stood there, pretending to pay attention, random individuals were coming over to him and clapping him on the shoulder and giving him nods of approval. They were _relying_ on him, _wanting_ his guidance and expertise. It was quite strange, really, especially when scorn and mockery were about all he got back home.

The hours passed in a blur, though Dorian could barely tell if it was because of how lost in his thoughts he was or if it was because of how much activity there was in Hawke’s home. Plans were being drawn up for how to contact Aveline without alerting the templars, and recruitment ideas were bandied about. Someone had made food in Hawke’s kitchen, and the host himself ended up passing out steaming bowls of stew as the discussions continued. At some point, a giant dog joined the fun, slobbering on quite a few of guests and getting pets from an equal number of them, before settling heavily in Anders’ lap and falling asleep, drooling all over the man’s clothes.

Somehow, this seemed to signal the end of the meeting, and people started to disperse. Some of them, including Cullen, were leaving with papers in hand, but Dorian had nothing, trailing after the man as they left with barely a farewell to those still inside the residence. Cullen talked animatedly about how it would be nice to train individuals in how to fight, but he came to a pause when he noticed what was probably a glazed expression on Dorian’s face.

“Are you… alright? You were unusually quiet during the meeting,” Cullen said softly, a small smile curling the corners of his lips. Dorian was fairly sure that he was being teased, and he didn’t know if he wanted to kiss the man or smack him.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dorian said instead, mustache twitching. Cullen regarded him for a moment longer and then kept on walking with Dorian following suit.

Really, Dorian _was_ fine. He just wasn’t entirely sure what those two kisses _meant_. In Minrathous, men didn’t just _kiss_ out in the open like that, and when they did in private, there was nothing _sweet_ or _chaste_ about the matter. Men back home kissed to fuck, but what he’d shared with Cullen hadn’t been like that: nothing leading up to those kisses had felt like that.

Was courtship still a thing here in Kirkwall?

Still, he had to wonder if Cullen was just aiming for sex. Dorian himself had been all but celibate since his arrival here in Kirkwall, not having done more than stroking himself off hurriedly and quietly in the shower a handful of times back in the Gallows; since then, he’d had little desire or space to do anything. Even now, it wasn’t an overwhelming hunger, despite having a very attractive man showing that he was very available. It was… a pleasant thought, something he wouldn’t mind having; the feeling was softer than he remembered it being in Minrathous when he found a willing partner. Dorian put that down as a side effect of what he’d been through since arriving here.

And Cullen? Dorian didn’t _think_ that templars were forced to take vows to never have sex, but they were an odd breed, one that they didn’t really have in Minrathous…

So after they returned to the hut and shut the door behind them, Dorian pulled Cullen into another kiss--this one with _just_ a bit of heat to it. He wanted to test the waters, try and suss out what it was Cullen wanted from him. Warm hands came to rest against his hips, but then Dorian was being very gently pushed away--not far, but away all the same. Blinking at the man, Dorian didn’t know what to think, but Cullen simply smiled.

As if to assuage any worries though, Cullen dipped right back in for another kiss, soft and sweet and lingering, which was, in Dorian’s opinion, the best part. When they separated, Dorian found himself with his eyes closed and his hands gently fisted against Cullen’s chest--a rather unusual state to be in for how innocent that kiss had been. There were now fingers in his hair, and a part of him wanted to protest but another enjoyed the feeling far too much.

The latter won out.

“Is this something men from Kirkwall do?” he asked, his voice soft, like he didn’t want to break the spell that had been woven around them. A wry smile pulled at Dorian’s lips because it was quickly becoming apparent that Cullen had no plans of pushing this any further tonight. “Or is this something the Chantry tells you to do? Wait fifty days before touching? A hundred? Please don’t tell me I have to wait a year before you do more with me.”

Cullen laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. Dorian tried not to think too hard about how much he liked it, how much he had been enjoying it of recent.

“It’s not a Chantry thing. It’s a Kirkwall men who have to be up early to sort out a new training regimen thing,” Cullen replied, finally moving away. He was smiling though, and Dorian couldn’t help but shake his head good naturedly. “You didn’t forget that you agreed to come along, did you?”

That actually _did_ surprise him, given that he didn’t remember doing that. Cullen saw the look on his face and chuckled before disappearing into the kitchenette to prepare his tea. “You recall saying that you would teach the mages how to become battle mages, right?” Dorian came over then, leaning against the wall; he nodded when Cullen met his gaze. “Barris had asked if you wanted to come and watch, see if you could figure out a way to help combat the templar threat _as_ a mage.”

“Oh, right,” he replied, though Dorian still couldn’t quite recall when that had happened.

Cullen went back to fussing with the kettle, and after heating said kettle with a bit of magic, Dorian wandered off to get ready for bed, stripping out of his clothes to pull on his sleepwear. Though he could feel Cullen watching him undress and then get dressed again, he didn’t turn around until he was clothed from head to toe; Dorian was happy to see the satisfied smile on Cullen’s face, even if he didn’t mention it.

If they were in Minrathous, Dorian was fairly sure that he’d be fucked into the mattress by this point, but here was this man, calmly drinking his tea and admiring him--genuinely and truly admiring him. “Should I push our cots together?” he asked, a slight lift to his eyebrows. “I promise I’ll keep my filthy little mitts to myself if that’s what you want, though I’m not sure why. I’ve been told that I have lovely hands and a mouth--”

“Dorian,” Cullen started, interrupting him. Had he gone too far then? Pushed too hard? Dorian snapped his mouth shut, as if he’d been sharply reprimanded, and then Cullen came over to him, taking his hands between his own and pressing another kiss to his lips. “I didn’t kiss you today just to get in your pants.”

“Should I be insulted or flattered?”

“Well, I--” There was a faint flush now to Cullen’s cheeks, and Dorian took that as a good sign. “I-it’s not like I don’t want you, but--”

“Yes, yes, alright. We have a busy morning tomorrow.” Dorian gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It still seemed strange to _not_ be pushing for sex right from the get-go, given that sex and nothing else could be the summary of the large majority of his past relationships, if one could call them relationships. “We can do this your way.”

“I mean it though,” Cullen spoke quietly now, _earnestly_. 

“Of course you do.” 

That brought a small frown to Cullen’s lips, though he didn’t push the matter, even if his expression seemed like he wanted to. Dorian, a little puzzled, got his hands back, and he folded his arms loosely across his chest as Cullen went back to finish his tea. There was a little stiffness in the man’s shoulders now, and Dorian realized that he’d said something wrong.

With a soft sigh, Dorian went back into the kitchenette to complete his nightly routine; Cullen shifted to make space for Dorian and then glanced over at him, his mug raised to his lips. He seemed calm enough, though his expression was, perhaps a little less effusively happy as compared to earlier.

“You’ll have to excuse me for not following Kirkwall etiquette,” Dorian finally said, grabbing his toothbrush and the toothpaste that they shared. “In Minrathous, kissing between two men is a prelude to sex--nothing more.”

Cullen drained the remainder of his tea and then set the mug down, warm eyes searching Dorian’s. “But what does it mean to you?”

Dorian honestly wasn’t sure how to answer that question and stuffed his toothbrush in his mouth to avoid replying. For days now, he’d been agonizing over his presence here in Kirkwall--in the ramifications of his actions--culminating in the execution of Cullen’s parents, and now? Now he was being asked about how he felt about… about _romance_? Was that what this was? Or was he entirely off the mark?

Hawke and his group of friends offered Dorian friendship, a belonging that he’d felt with precious few in Minrathous, but what Cullen was offering him was on an entirely different level. Physical intimacy was something he had no problem with, though it had become a forgotten luxury these past few months, but beyond that… ? Dorian had it ingrained in him that romance and affection were things to never expect and to never hope for.

Was Cullen testing him? Or was Dorian simply overthinking things?

“Hey, I can hear those gears turning in your head,” Cullen said, and he offered him a wry smile. Dorian paused in brushing his teeth before resuming again when the man just nudged him gently with his elbow, a friendly, easy gesture. “This can be whatever you want it to be.

“You’ve been through a lot while you’ve been here, and I really shouldn’t have overstepped my bounds earlier today. I had just thought…” The look on Cullen’s face told Dorian all he needed to know: he was thinking about how Dorian had kissed him back.

Dorian was quick to finish brushing his teeth, and once his mouth was rinsed and everything was placed back in their proper spots, he turned back to Cullen, resting a gentle hand against his shoulder. “You did nothing wrong,” he said quietly. “Trust me. If I didn’t want you to kiss me, I would have singed your hair off on the spot.” Dorian went silent before smiling again, a small, shy thing. “But give me some more time to think about what kissing you means to me, alright?”

Because Cullen was clearly not the only one who did it on impulse today.

“Now then, did you want to push the cots together or not?” he asked again, eyebrows lifting. Dorian still felt like there was so much that wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t come to Kirkwall, but if Cullen was going to be insistent on how none of this fault, then he wasn’t going to push the matter. Dorian would simply have to make up for the trouble he caused in other ways--said ways likely starting with helping solve the current templar problem running amok in Kirkwall.

(Dorian hadn’t forgotten why he’d originally left Minrathous, but it felt wrong to leave Kirkwall worse than he had found it. When this was all done, perhaps he would continue on to Val Royeaux.)

“If you’re comfortable with that,” Cullen replied, and Dorian nodded his head--but not before he felt a gentle caress over his shoulder. He paused briefly, smiling at Cullen, and then moved into the main area of the hut.

It was a matter of a few minutes to push the cots together, and Dorian spent a little time adjusting the bedding as well. Cullen had finished washing up by this point and was stripping down and changing into his sleepwear; Dorian might have chanced a glance in his direction, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

“I did my best, but I’m not entirely sure it’s safe to sleep in the middle,” he said, gesturing at the cots. “You’ll have to excuse me for not wanting to accidentally end up on the floor in the middle of the night.”

“We can look into a single, larger bed at some point then.” The comment was said offhandedly, but the words still made Dorian swallow, though he did his best to not think too hard on it.

“So long as you don’t let Hawke choose the bed. The man has no _taste_ ,” Dorian muttered, glancing around at the Hawke-provided decor in their hut.

“Are you saying that my taste is better?” Cullen asked, settling on his usual cot while Dorian did the same on his side after shuttering the lamps that lit up their home.

“Well, your taste in men is impeccable, so you get points for that.” When he laid down and rolled onto his side, Cullen was right there, gazing at him. Though it was dark, Dorian could still make out the warm crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the smile on his lips. A hand came to settle lightly against his waist, and when he didn’t brush it away or show any signs of disapproval, it rested more heavily against him.

“But you can praise me at another time. I do believe you said something about an early morning tomorrow?”

Cullen laughed softly. “I suppose I did.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone! Hope the season is treating you well. ♥♥♥

It was strange, really, to see Darktown coming to life as it was now.

Following the meeting at Hawke’s, most of the level had become a camp of resistance, whereas before, it had mostly been a bed of apathy. Wherever Dorian went, he heard whisperings of overthrowing the templar order, of reclaiming the tower as their own. He wasn’t sure that that was really the plan, but it was nice to see everyone working toward a common goal.

He wondered, distantly, if he could ever work up such a following in Minrathous. What traits could he learn from _Hawke_ to lead and inspire? After all, Kirkwall was not the only tower in desperate need of an overhaul.

While there were still those who wanted nothing more than to be left alone in their dark corner of the level, most of residents, even those who had lived here long enough to forget what was going on above them, were hard pressed to ignore the threat of a templar invasion. If they didn’t want to fight for mages or the refugees, they still wanted to protect their way of life: there were trades and markets down here that those above wouldn’t approve of--not out in the open at least. To have the templars here would interrupt all of that.

Daily, more and more individuals signed up to join their numbers, and every day, Dorian watched as Cullen went to teach more and more people how to fight and defend themselves. On the first day, he’d seemed a little nervous, twisting his hands and rubbing at the back of his neck, but now, he stood with his head held high. He wasn’t afraid of stepping in to show a recruit how his stance was wrong, how the grip of his sword and shield could be improved.

Cullen spoke and moved with the confidence of a commander, and it enthralled Dorian.

It wasn’t like he spent the entire day gawking at the man--though it was tempting at times. No, Dorian had his own flock to tend to: his mages. Ander’s mage sanctuary had been reclaimed for the practice of magic, much to the dismay of the cats residing there, and every day, Dorian would start with a bit of magical theory before moving on to the application of said theory.

Some of the mages had balked at the idea of magic _study_ and _research_ , which then led into a rather long discussion about the importance of such things in comparison to practical application. Certainly, they did teach some basics of magical theory in the Gallows, but they never went into the nitty gritty bits, the parts that would lead to new magical discoveries. Bethany could be seen smiling to herself in the back corner the entire time Dorian was speaking, and her grin only broadened when someone came to challenge his right to lead the mages, what with being from Minrathous and being so infatuated with books.

This led to a very quick and decisive duel between the challenger and himself, ending with a staff blade in the other man’s face.

The sanctuary had gone eerily silent during the fight, but when Dorian stepped back and helped the man to his feet, there was a raucous round of applause. It was surprising, given that usually when Dorian got into fights, he was the underdog, but he bowed in traditional Minrathous style to whoops and cheers. From there on out, his practice of magical theory followed by practical application became the norm for their days without further complaint.

In the evenings, Dorian would then return to where Cullen and Barris were training the soldiers, often to see the groups of sweaty, exhausted individuals leaving. It was then that they discussed technique to help mages fight against templars, though it was difficult to actually practice, given that both men weren’t on lyrium anymore; what was in their tea was minimal, and Dorian was pleased to note that Cullen was actually taking less of it these days.

Still, they could still try, though the effect was not nearly as powerful, but the feeling was no less strange and unpleasant when Dorian felt them pulling and drawing his mana away from him. The three of them would practice hand-to-hand combat, allowing Dorian to practice fighting in close quarters with staff and magic and to start learning the tells of when a templar was about to drain his mana. How to _counter_ the move was still a work in process.

The exercises often left him tired and sweaty, ready to retire for the evening when all was said and done, especially when he knew it was more of the same the next day.

Despite this (or, perhaps, because of this), though, this daily routine gave him purpose, and he could feel the lull that had started to settle over him following the Lowtown rescue dissipating. There was always something going on, something to keep him busy.

Hawke was all but organizing Darktown into a militia, and every day, the man was going around, speaking with craftsmen and suppliers to make sure that everyone was kitted out. A small envoy, led by Varric, had been sent up to find and speak with Aveline about an alliance, and a team of spies was growing and being mobilized as well, all to keep an eye on what the templars were doing in the levels above them.

Cole still did his part, flitting about the levels and bringing back information that the other spies had no hope of obtaining, given his unique set of skills, and Dorian couldn’t help but notice how he looked a little happy, a little proud when Hawke or Barris or Cullen would praise him for his efforts. It only seemed right that Dorian do the same.

“You’ve done so much good for so many of us,” he said one afternoon, when he had left practice in the hands of Bethany in order to attend a meeting. Cole had just brought back news that the Chantry was sending down brothers and sisters to the lower levels, as if to soften the increased presence of the templars there, and the boy had looked at Dorian with those large, pale eyes of his.

“I want to help.” Cole nodded his head, as if this explained everything. “I want to help people who hurt and make them not hurt.” His gaze dropped away before fixating upon Dorian again. “You hurt less now.

“He makes you happy.” The boy tilted his head. “Shadows upon your soul, creeping, haunting, eager to see you fall. You failed them, but he sees your light. He sees the good in you. Powerful, strong, beautiful--a radiant soul though he touches the fade and walks with spirits.

“He smiles because of you and for you. He wants you to be happy. Please be happy, Dorian.”

Dorian stared at Cole, who looked at him as if he’d said something perfectly normal. He could feel a bit of heat rising in his cheeks, and Dorian forced a laugh before looking away. “What a strange thing for you to say, Cole,” he muttered, though it was clear that he was… more than a little delighted to hear that, though it was still a bit disconcerting when Cole spoke like that. “Of course I’m happy.”

“You can want more.”

“Pardon?” 

“No one will hurt you for wanting more. Not here. Why are you so afraid? _I can’t. This isn’t for me. This can’t be for me._ ” Cole peered at him from beneath his large hat and lowered his voice. “He wants you to want more.” Dorian was about to protest getting talks about bedroom activities from Cole, not to mention having his thoughts _read_ , when he felt the boy’s hand press against his chest, fingertips over his heart. “Here.”

Any words that he was going to speak died on his lips, and Dorian remained speechless well after Cole drifted off.

After their meeting, Dorian returned to his mages, though his thoughts were distracted by this point. With how busy they’d been, he hadn’t been forced to think about what Cullen meant to him. They still kissed, still fell asleep settled awkwardly in the cots they’d pushed together, but things had proceeded no further than that. There was no bright burn of lust, save for when Dorian came and found Cullen sweating and shirtless after a day’s worth of practice with his troops, but by the time they got home together, they were both too exhausted for anything.

And yet, Dorian was alright with this.

Therein seemed to lie his answer about what he wanted his kisses with Cullen to mean. Were this back in Minrathous, Dorian didn’t doubt that his fascination with the man would have faded away a long time ago if he had been after nothing more than a quick fuck, and yet, here he was, playing at domesticity when he could have easily left a long time ago. Maker, he could have left when Cullen had started talking about _feelings_ , but no, Dorian was still here, still just as attached, though he apparently didn’t want to admit to said attachment.

That evening, when he went to meet up with Barris and Cullen, he beggared off practice and asked that Cullen return home with him. Though surprised, the man had offered no resistance and bid Barris a good night, and it seemed like Barris was quite alright with turning in early for once as well.

“I spoke with Cole today,” Dorian said lightly as they wound their way toward their hut. Cullen glanced over at him but didn’t press him for more, as if he knew that just by waiting that Dorian would continue to speak. It, admittedly, took a few tries, but he did just that. “He’s such a disconcerting fellow. I owe him so much, but…” He shook his head and tried again. “He made me realize something.”

Cullen grunted in affirmation, and Dorian clicked his tongue, jabbing his elbow into his side. The man laughed at that and rubbed at his ribs; Dorian couldn’t help the small smile that still pulled at his lips though. “So what did he help you realize?” Cullen asked, and Dorian wasn’t sure if Cullen just hadn’t figured out what he was leading up to or if he was trying to keep the pressure off of him in much the same way he had been since Cullen had first kissed him.

Dorian suspected that it was the latter.

“He helped me realize that I could have left you at any time.” At his side, Cullen froze for a moment, though his stride didn’t falter.

“Oh.” The disappointment in Cullen’s voice made the next words tumble out of Dorian’s mouth, graceless in their delivery.

“But it also made me realize that I didn’t--that I didn’t want to.” His gaze flickered over to try and find Cullen’s. Dorian could still hear Cole’s voice in his head, telling him and encouraging him to want more, to take more. His movement speed increased, as if his apprehension spurred him on to walk faster, but Cullen kept pace with him, didn’t judge him for being nervous. “I can have more with you.”

Their hut was within sight now, and while Cullen was all but beaming beside him, Dorian hurried them to the door and then ushered them inside, feeling his face heat more and more with every passing second. “I would like that. To have more with you,” he continued, staring at the lock as he locked it. “If you would give me the opportunity.”

Warm, calloused hands found his own, and Cullen gently turned him around and pressed another kiss against his lips as he laced their fingers together. The man looked so… _so happy_ that Dorian was powerless to stop a small smile from showing up on his own face, especially when that kiss was so sweet, so perfect.

“Surely you don’t think I could actually say no to such a proposal?” Cullen murmured, speaking the words against Dorian’s lips. He laughed quietly at that, slipping his hands out of Cullen’s, but only so that he could cradle the man’s face between his hands.

“It only seemed polite to give you a choice. I _am_ a gentleman, you know.” Dorian felt a hand settle against his hip, while another came to rest against the small of his back.

“Then yes, I’ll give you the opportunity.”

Dorian smiled, gently bumping their foreheads together. “Good.”

“Good.” There was such affection in Cullen’s eyes that Dorian didn’t know what to do with himself.

Feeling a bit giddy, Dorian let go of a small, shivery breath. Standing this close together, all of his senses were filled by Cullen’s presence--a heady experience to be sure. Tipping up for another kiss, he let himself get lost in the sweet slide of their mouths together and then ventured to swipe his tongue against the seam of Cullen’s lips. 

The hand at his waist tightened, and for a second, Dorian thought that Cullen was going to pull away and stop. However, the moment passed, and instead, he felt Cullen parting his lips for him: it was an invitation that he certainly wasn’t going to turn down. With a soft sound, Dorian kissed him just a little harder, as a need that he hadn’t felt in _months_ started to grow within him.

One of his hands curled around the nape of Cullen’s neck, fingers teasing at sweat-damp hair, while the other pressed against the front of his chest. Cullen took a step forward, and Dorian allowed it, kept allowing it until he felt himself pressed back against the door; Cullen was a line of pure heat against him, fitting against him like he’d belonged there this whole time.

A hand came up to card through his hair, ruining the styling, but that only made Dorian chuckle softly. He reached up, tugging on the tie that held his hair in place and letting those dark, long locks cascade around his face. Cullen seemed to appreciate the gesture, given the pleased sound that he made, and Dorian melted a little when he felt those fingers go back to running through his hair as they resumed their kiss, open-mouthed and easy.

Cullen touched him, gently and carefully, his hands sweeping over the delicate line of his throat and over his chest before settling back against his hips, and then he rocked forward against Dorian, making him inhale sharply. “Oh,” he breathed, his voice deeper than before. Amusement glinted in his eyes as he returned the favor, a small smile pulling at his lips. “So Chantry boys aren’t so innocent then? Or has your waiting period finally ended?”

“I seem to recall telling you that I _do_ want you.” Cullen’s cheeks were flushed, but the embarrassment from the first time they’d had this conversation wasn’t there. No, Cullen was likely experiencing the same arousal that Dorian was feeling in his veins.

Long fingers fanned out over his ass, giving it a gentle squeeze that still had his breath hitching, and Dorian tilted his head back against the door, a move that Cullen took advantage of. Warm lips pressed against the soft skin there, making Dorian shudder, making him whine. It’d been too, too long since he’d enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh; he was hardening in his pants under Cullen’s careful attentions, and Dorian was starting to need and want more.

Cullen dragged him closer for another sweet roll of the hips--an action that was replied to in kind. Back and forth they went, their breaths growing shallow and quick as they rocked against one another. At some point, Cullen had dragged his mouth back up to kiss Dorian, the air hot and humid between them, but now they were mostly just panting at one another, eyes dark and glazed over.

Dorian had both hands against Cullen’s hips now, applying pressure to them each time they came together, and absently, he found himself in disbelief that they were getting off this way: like two desperate teenagers rutting against each other before their parents got home. The thought brought a lazy grin to his lips, and while Cullen made a querying sound, Dorian gave him no answer.

He didn’t have the air in his lungs to do so anyway.

Time became a foreign concept, something lost between their panting breaths. With a thick thigh nudged between his legs, Dorian eventually came with a strangled groan, wrapping his arms around Cullen’s shoulders and burying his face in the crook of his neck. He shuddered, hips twitching weakly now that he’d orgasmed.

Cullen was still shifting against him, grinding against his hip, and then Dorian felt a shudder run through him as a soft _oh_ slipped past his lips. The man continued to rock against him for a moment longer before stilling; Cullen slumped against him, and Dorian allowed the door to take the majority of their weight. He huffed a sigh and pressed a quick kiss against Cullen’s jaw, relishing the endorphins rushing through his veins.

They might not have gotten any clothes off, but this? Oh, this was _nice_.


End file.
